


Silent confessions

by meinposhbastard



Series: werewolfish matters [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Universe - Werewolves, Foxes, Happy Ending, M/M, a dumb kidnapping, but funny nonetheless, infuriating foxes, lingering feelings, or so he believes, seriously these foxes will be the death of Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/pseuds/meinposhbastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Eve’s unexpected abduction leads to the discovery of Q’s secret?<br/>That and <em>maybe</em> patch things up between these two idiots.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Continued thanks to **Lin** and **Lex**. You are two wonderful beings who put up with me! :D
> 
> P.S The titles of each chapter are actual lines (or bits) from the chapter itself. Just, you know, FYI.

_**Bloody hell!** _

* * *

 

The air inside is warm and filled with the sweet scent of baked biscuits. The medium-size plate containing them is sitting on the table near his mother’s armchair. She’s drinking her five o’clock tea, while her gaze shifts lazily from the fireplace to her eldest son. He’s been standing at the window for an hour, watching the rain, lost in his thoughts. She doesn’t need to smell the air or go to unusual extents of her powers to conclude that he’s on edge.

He even ignores his little brother, the toddler who is full of energy from the moment he wakes until he crashes into bed at the last possible moment. His mop of dark, wavy curls contrasts beautifully with his white and perfect skin. He’s tall and supple, and like most children his age, very verbal.

“Eya, shift again! I want to see! Eya!” The little one had been saying that for at least ten minutes now, but _Eya_ isn’t there.

He is caught up in the dreadful weather outside. His mind is out there, between droplets of heavy rain, thinking heavily. On what? On many things. Different bits of different thoughts are melded together into a clutter of intense feelings. He isn’t aware, but the speed with which the drops are falling is in slow motion to his own eyes.

It had kept on raining since he had arrived there, so he was literally trapped inside the house, which was making him go slowly insane. He had wanted to get away from London, from MI6, from everything, but the true reason for this decision was actually Bond.

With him loitering around in Q Branch, he couldn’t possibly sort out the messy congregation of his feelings. That’s why the almost four-hour-long trip by train from London to Exmouth had been a necessity.

“Eya, you should grant his wish.” His mother intercedes, as Sasha squirms and twists around Q’s foot just to get his attention.

Q, however, is immune to such childish tricks, because he once did that too.

Now, though, his internal conflicts are the real “tricks” he needs to overcome. He uses his unwavering gaze to suck in the external scenery and create an internal rain, but with himself in the middle of it.

There, behind the curtain of his ever-changing irises, he has already immortalized the drops, studying the ones in his immediate proximity with mocking curiosity. That precious congregation of molecules had had the audacity to absorb the multiple layers of his emotions and disturb the timeless cocoon he had created.

It’s an abstract place, where he escapes from the turmoil he unleashes upon himself every time reality is too much to take in.

He tries to resist the urge to touch them, because he knows what will happen if he succumbs, but the itch is too powerful to be dismissed, so he does the unforgivable. In a matter of moments, every single drop of rain is exploding in his mind; every particle is visible to his mental eye, shimmering like a multitude of tiny pearls, before being completely engulfed in the chaos that followed.

“Tedious.” He murmurs, waking up from his little introspection. His forehead is pressed against the cool window, his eyelids half-closed. “This bloody weather is just tedious!”

The little child gasps and quickly runs to his mother, climbing into her lap.

“Mummy, Eya said that word again.” His eyes, wide with shock, focus on hers with such intensity that she must look elsewhere to regain the composure the toddler deftly took away with his gaze alone.

“Q, when will you come back to Earth?” She asks a bit louder, but with amusement, then she turns her attention to her youngest son and adds in a lower voice, as if she’s telling him a secret, “Don’t worry, honey bear, Eya has many planets going round in his head.”

Q’s sigh clouds the window.

“I’ve never understood, why do you keep calling Sasha honey bear and me honey bee?” Q asks, not bothering to turn around and look at them, but instead he focuses his gaze on how the foggy part retreats itself into nothingness, leaving the window clear again.

“So you do hear when people are talking to you.”

Sasha quickly leaves his mother’s lap to approach Q shyly.

“Do those planets hurt real bad?” Comes his brother’s concerned question.

Q hesitates a moment before revolving his complete attention to his little brother. Letting himself down, so he can be at the same level with Sasha, he looks at the toddler, studying his face closely while formulating a bitter answer. Right now he’s just too frustrated not to let it out on someone.

“Yes, very. They’re like cosmic supernovae exploding every five seconds, and the place is a mess of grey matter and pieces of brain scattered around… “

“Q!” Their mother interrupts him before the description becomes bloodier and more terrifying for Sasha. Both brothers turn their heads at the same time, giving their mother two identical looks of pure innocence. “If you’re feeling _that_ frustrated, why don’t you go and take a walk in the woods and see if you can clear up that mess of yours?”

Q lets out a long-suffering sigh. It seems that their mother is also immune to the natural tricks that both of them managed to manipulate from a very young age. He lets his head fall back, closing his eyes. He has never felt more trapped than right now.

“Sorry, Sasha.” He murmurs, though he knows his brother has already forgiven him, otherwise he wouldn’t be glued to his leg for dear life. “Right.” Q speaks again after a moment of silence, starting to move to the fireplace. His steps alternate, much to his mother’s amusement, between one heavy and one light step, Sasha having too much fun being carried away on his brother’s leg to let go. “It’s time to head back to London.”

“So soon?” She asks, concerned and surprised at the same time.

“It’s been five days, mother. I can’t prolong my stay here any longer. You know how I hate feeling useless.”

‘Useless’ because he had left all his technology at his flat back in London. He wouldn’t have been able to enter his childhood home otherwise. His mother had made the rule clear: no tech inside the house. Q didn’t even have a bloody phone on him, which kept scratching at the worried part of his mind. England could be attacked _en masse_ and nobody at MI6 would be able to reach him, just because she prohibited anything that had even the faintest hint of the technologic in it.

Not even England’s own satellite could trace him down, because he wasn’t chipped and this place was well hidden beneath a dense duvet of trees, far away from the city. It would require footwork to retrieve him if matters went desperately overboard back at MI6.

Basically, he was unreachable, a certainty that didn’t sit well with him, even though that was the whole point of his little trip.

“I see.” Her reply comes slowly, like she’s considering things. “And there’s nothing I can do to stop you.” She sighs dramatically. “Okay, go back to saving the Queen and country’s arses.” She immediately gasps and covers her mouth. “Oh, blimey! That’s a secret.”

“Not anymore, it seems, dear mother.” Q gives her his first genuine smile in the last five days. He approaches the armchair she’s sitting on and kisses her forehead. “I take it the supposed ‘kidnappers’ won’t have a hard time extracting information about me from you, if such a thing would ever happen.”

“What are you muttering there? I’m hardly that unreliable.” She frowns, visibly put off by her son’s distrust in her powers. “I’m an impenetrable safety-deposit box, if it escaped your attention.”

Her huff and the tilting up of her chin pulls out a soft chuckle from Q.

“Mummy, are you gonna be kidnappered?” Sasha interrupts in a shaky voice, making his way up between her legs and onto her lap. His big, dark eyes are almost drinking her in.

“Q, look what you’ve done!” She admonishes him, frowning again. “He mispronounced the past tense of kidnap because of you.”

Q just laughs and ruffles Sasha’s unruly curls.

“London it is!” he says, heading for the door that leads to the staircase.

 

* * *

 

The unstoppable tick-tock of the clock at his back is seriously getting on his nerves. It’s awfully loud, especially for his keen hearing. It doesn’t help that Q Branch is deserted, except for him, Bond (who is standing in front of his own desk, blocking his view of the entrance), some staff, and probably a few other double-ohs. So of course the noise is amplified by quite a handful of decibels.

He’s starting to miss the buzzing of computers, which normally helps to make the sound of passing seconds miraculously disappear. At almost three in the morning, the underground tunnels of MI6 are the perfect playground for ghosts - or double-ohs, for that matter, who had just returned from their latest mission.

“You’re distracting me.” Q addresses Bond calmly, trying to study the pages of a navy blue manila, but failing miserably.

The agent is fresh from the mission in Honolulu. Q can still smell the residue of explosives on Bond. He can almost recreate the events of the last a couple of hours, including the quick shag in a deposit room he had before setting  fire (accidentally, as he always chants) to the upper floors of the company.

The last bit of information was offered by the man himself in his brief summary of how things had devolved chaotically (as usual), before hopping on the next plane to England.

Once again, Q _had_ to acknowledge Bond’s pyromaniac tendencies, which he was sure had, at least in part, rubbed off from Alec Trevelyan.

“That’s my job requirement.” His gruff but amused voice disrupts Q’s reverie.

The younger man lets out a soft sigh. A quick glance (and the faint smell of blood mixed with a tremendous amount of painkillers) lets him know that the agent had patched up some of the more serious wounds himself, leaving the scratches and some minor burns in the open air.

He had replaced his probably destroyed tux with another one, this time dark grey. The adrenaline is still rushing through his system, but it becomes fainter and fainter with each passing minute. All of it is summed up by the fatigue that’s clearly depicted on Bond’s face, though Q is stubbornly pushing aside every remnant of worry he might feel for the cold-blooded assassin in front of him.

“What _isn’t_  your job requirement?” He asks instead, irritated that he pays _this_ much attention to the other man.

“Falling in love.”

Bond’s prompt reply feels like a bucket of cold water; unexpected, and a cause for violent internal shivers. Q immediately looks at the agent and sees nothing, except for the shadows of tiredness. Apart from that, he’s a blank sheet. Every expression is carefully concealed by his icy blue eyes, a colour that’s intensified by all the striplights above the office.

The conversation is perilously close to turning into something else and Q doesn’t like where it is heading to. He isn’t prepared to delve into that territory just yet. The past matters between them are sealed and stored away, but it seems that Q is finding it unexpectedly hard to move on, which is an annoying problem, given the fact that he was the one who put an end to it.

He subtly gulps, letting another few seconds slip surreptitiously by, before returning his gaze to the papers in his hand. Not a single word sticks in his mind, though his eyes skim the text furiously.

“I take it your Walther is still somewhere in Honolulu,” He deftly changes the topic of discussion. “if you’re not… “ Q halts abruptly as Bond places the gun in question on the desk in front of both of them.

The Quartermaster looks suspiciously at the agent, then back at the weapon, repeating the motion a few times before taking the Walther for a quick examination.

The cold and heavy gadget feels so familiar in his hands. It was the first weapon he created upon taking the place of Major Boothroyd. He twists and turns it, feeling, smelling, _hearing_ all the details _his_ Walther has to whisper to him. Except for some minor scratches here and there and the distinct odour of sweat mixed with explosive particles, the weapon seems intact. Q knows Bond’s intent gaze on his face doesn’t waver once, while the young man subtly conceals his unashamed caresses under the scrutinous attention.

The hands are not the only means Q can use to do that. His eyes are more than enough to pleasure him.

“Pleased, _Quartermaster_ ?” The agent says in a low voice, stressing Q’s title on purpose.

“Yes, I am.” The younger man affirms in a hurry, shooting Bond an assessing gaze. Soon enough, however, he regains control over himself and adds in a more eloquent tone, “As far as I can be pleased by the integrity of my gadgets at the end of a mission.”

They look at each other for a couple of seconds more, before Q stands up and puts the pages back into the navy blue manila. It’s a subtle way of transmitting to the agent that he’s dismissed, but the man in question seems oblivious to such subtleties and doesn’t move an inch from where he’s standing.

“Why are you nervous, _Quartermaster_ ?” Bond asks instead in that same deep voice which makes Q flinch slightly and dart his head up instinctively.

“I am not.” He says calmly, returning his gaze on the manila in his hands, after a moment of fixing each other in silence.

“Yes, you really _are_.”

Q immediately assesses his face just in time to see how his lips stretch slowly in a perfect bow, forming brackets-like shadows at each corner of his mouth. Something doesn’t seem quite right with the agent. There’s a relaxed aura around him. This never happens, not after only three hours of being on English soil.

“007, how many painkillers did you took?” Q asks, narrowing his eyes, suspecting the worst.

“A lot.” Bond says, shrugging awkwardly.

Q raises an eyebrow, demanding a more elaborate answer from the agent.

“I don’t remember.”

Q must remain calm, even as the somehow irrational fear settles uncomfortably in his stomach. He gulps, though his eyes never cease to search every inch of Bond’s face for any kind of tell-tale signs.

“So you’re high right now.” He half-asks, half-affirms, unsure about many things right now.

“Most probably.” Bond affirms, his lopsided-grin making Q shiver unconsciously. He shrugs off the unpleasant feeling it causes and focuses instead on the rapidly-rising problem that’s Bond.

“How many fingers am I… “ He tries something basic, but Bond cuts him off mid-sentence, frowning incredulously.

“Q, I’m not drunk.”

“The effects are the same.” The Quartermaster comments, not daring to move from where he is.

Something about Bond not being the usual Bond sets off his defences.

“I’m just a bit lightheaded.” The agent mutters, seeming a bit lost.

“Quantify ‘a bit’.” The younger man demands, but the time for questioning narrows down to Bond’s next unconscious action.

Q’s trained eyes see, just before it happens, his eyes catch every tell-tale sign from Bond’s dilated pupils, eyelids half close to the relaxed and almost unaware posture he had adopted throughout their conversation.

The agent passes out before his eyes, falling to the floor like a dead weight.

His eyes widen and every muscle in his body freezes from the shock.

He can’t stay there like a sodden rock, damn it! He has to move. He must make sure the agent is fine, is still _alive_. That last thought seems to finally give Q control over his body again. He’s forced to take a small detour, because his desk is between him and the unconscious body on the floor. At last he falls to his knees besides Bond and the first thing he does is to take his pulse.

007 is breathing, at least, which is a relief to Q’s chest, tight with worry.

His senses alert him to the sudden appearance of another (familiar) person just in time for him to contain his instinctual reactions.

“What happened?” Alec Trevelyan asks in a weary voice, jogging to where 007 is lying, then crouching to take his pulse.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he had known that it was Alec.

“He’s fine.” Q says in a small voice. “I think. He passed out just moments ago.” He adds, while the other agent checks Bond’s pupils and lets a relieved sigh escape through his mouth.

“Painkillers?”

“Yes.” Q replies, his voice even. “I suspect a deliberately large amount, to have caused this.”

“Painkillers are his natural nemesis, even if he’ll say otherwise.” Alec comments, shaking his head, somehow amused.

Q looks at him, a bit baffled by 006’s light reaction to the situation. The Quartermaster can’t help but feel at ease in his presence. It is, of course, a feeling that sets off another row of alertness. This may as well be Alec Trevelyan’s strategy, an illusion he creates to get the target into their comfort zone and then strike when they least expect it. A beautiful and deadly skill 006 has among his other assets, and his Quartermaster had almost walked right into it.

“We should get him in a more suitable environment.” Alec grabs Bond’s wrist and puts his arm on the other’s shoulders. “Here, help me carry him to my car.”

“Where are you thinking of taking him?” Q asks him, mirroring the agent’s action.

They start for the door and Q feels that Bond’s body weight is distributed equally between them. He expected to have Alec take on the major part, given the fact that many people are deceived by Q’s slender appearance. So it comes as a wonder that the agent might be cleverer than most people Q had met up until then.

“You have to decide that.” The agent answers, then they stop in front of the lift until the doors open.

“What?” Q asks, caught by surprise. They step inside and the doors close behind them.  “Why me?”

“Because there are three likely options: my place, a hotel, or your place. I’ve deliberately excluded his place because… you’ll probably find out sooner or later.” Alec shakes his head, and his expression is torn between amusement and something else which Q can’t quite label.

“And why should my presence be required?” The Quartermaster asks, raising an eyebrow skeptically. Alec just gives him an innocently puzzled look. “Don’t play these childish games with me, 006. I know where you’re aiming at. You know well enough it didn’t work between us. Besides, he’s just sleeping. It’s not like every damn terrorist who knows Bond is going to pop up out of nowhere and try to kill him just because they’ve got a one in a billion chance to actually accomplish it this time! So he can bloody well take care of himself.”

“ _That_ involves emptying his stock of alcohol drinks when he wakes up or anything he can find that has a high alcohol percentage.” 006 answers matter-of-factly.

“You don’t know that for sure.” Q replies, a bit desperately, because he knows he doesn’t have a point here.

“I know his post-mission behaviour better than the inside of my own pockets. You’re also as clever as you look, if not more so, so I suspect that  you already knew about this issue.”

Q sighs, defeated.

He should’ve won this argument, but it seems that he had lost the lead at some point in the conversation. With Bond, the last word would be Q’s, and that’s not because the agent is a dimwitted, stubborn arse who’s tongue is slower than that of his Quartermaster, but simply because the same dimwit let the matter drop when a certain point of the conversation was reached. Bond wasn’t aware of the fact that Q knew about this little strategy of his. At least he hoped not. With 007, matters were always unpredictable and problems popped up like daisies.

“Second chances are popular this year, you know?” Alec speaks suddenly in a soft, almost velvety voice, hinting at hope.

Q looks at his reflection on the lift’s doors and can see a tiny smile on his lips.

“Unfortunately I’m not the type to follow the trend.” The young man replies, mirroring 006’s smile, but with a sad hint to it.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, Q was left with Alec’s car keys and an unconscious Bond on the back seat, because Alec Trevelyan was another sneaky bastard. On his list of top ten MI6 bastard agents, 006 was in second place. Bond still held first, because nobody could compete with his level of skill in challenging the Quartermaster’s patience.

The only positive thing about that situation was probably Alec’s breath-taking, midnight blue, BMW X6. If Q had had the presence of mind, he would have immediately assessed the vehicle and come up with at least a dozen of improvements. Unfortunately, he had to focus on the road _and_ his roaming thoughts. He had ended up choosing his own place as the most "suitable environment" for 007, because the building had its own concierge who had helped him carry Bond into his flat.

Q remained in the living room, splayed comfortably on his black-leather sofa. The door to his bedroom was left ajar so he could keep an eye on the agent. Once again, the silence of the flat, interrupted only by Bond’s soft breathing and the suffocated city noises, created the perfect environment for Q to start to delve deep into his thoughts.

He was a bit frustrated at the moment, though. Nobody had asked him if he wanted to do this; nobody being 006. He was MI6’s Quartermaster, not a double-oh babysitter or nurse, but Q wasn’t being entirely honest with himself.

The real problem was that he hadn’t put enough distance between himself and the agent. Bond was always alive in his mind, still muddling up his thoughts. However, the worst times were when 007 himself was present in the same room as Q; he managed to power up the lingering memories in Q’s mind. Those were the truly focus-shattering minutes (sometimes hours) for the young man, because he was supposed to treat the other man as a simple agent, or close enough.

Nonetheless, Q always expended a great deal of energy on keeping his composed demeanor in place, even when their gazes locked or they accidentally touched. Those moments had the power to crack Q’s facade and it was mind-numbing to either ignore or try to repair the cracks that resulted. He was still finding it really difficult to look at the agent and not remember what they had shared at a certain point in the past.

Q’s job as a Quartermaster has never been stretched out like this before. He was desperately trying to keep at bay his own feelings, because they threatened him to overflow whenever Q had Bond in front of him. He was also trying to do his job in the same seamless way as always, since he liked being the smartest guy in the room. It was a self-satisfactory feeling he didn’t want to give up, no matter what.

Q was struggling with his own feelings. Every night before falling asleep (when he actually didn’t want to treat the night as a normal working day, that is) he _murdered_ each and every single remnant of the sentiments which had resurfaced throughout the day. It was useless, though, because his job required him to work with the man in question, so they were born anew from their ashes every sodding day like little Phoenixes.

He was at odds with himself and it hurt. Every time he crushed those feelings, a shocking pain would shoot through his body, accumulating itself in his chest. The more he wanted to get rid of his lingering emotions, the tighter his chest felt.

Sometimes he was aware of how slowly he was going insane. Other times there was just a dull ache he could easily dismiss, but not entirely.

 

* * *

 

“Where’s 006?” Q asks between clenched teeth, really containing his urge to take his anger out on the minion with whom he is currently speaking on the phone.

“He’s on the mission in Saint Petersburg, sir.” He replies in a professional voice, but Q feels the small trait of fear in his words.

“And 010?”

Q is pacing restlessly from one corner of the living room to the other. The situation is as desperate as it can be and he’s struggling not to succumb to the hopelessness that’s seeping through his logic. The matter requires nerves of steel and the only other person who would have them is currently still enjoying the cosiness of Q’s own bed.

“Still in Medical. He was badly injured in the last mission.” The minion’s clear voice shatters the Quartermaster’s moment of desperation.

_Shit. Shit. Shit! Damn it! Bloody hell!_

“Sir, could I ask what’s the matter?” The man utters in a small voice.

Just when Q is about to bark some anger-induced remarks, his eyes take in a confused-looking, still-sleepy Bond who has stopped in the bedroom’s doorway. Their eyes meet, but never part.

“Nevermind.” Q says, interrupting the communication immediately and shoving the phone in the left pocket of his trousers. “Eve has been abducted!” He gets straight to the point, approaching Bond with a desperate look on his face.

The agent takes exactly two seconds to pass from sleep-confused to completely alert and focused.

“When?” Bond asks, his tone steady and cold.

“It seems this morning before arriving at work. I received a text message from her number about an hour ago saying she’s fine, but… “ Q trails off, unconsciously darting his tongue out to moisten his lips, and Bond’s eyes flicker instantly to his mouth.

For a moment, Q has the vivid impression that the agent will close in the distance and do something that would throw the young man into a new turmoil.

“But?” Bond repeats, remaining steady and watching Q intently.

The Quartermaster presses his lips into a thin line before speaking up. He can’t grasp the emotions that the agent exudes and his expression doesn’t help either, being unreadable. Q’s somehow itching to know what’s roaming in Bond’s mind and with a soft sigh he lets the thought slip into a remote corner of his mind. Eve needs Q’s entire focus and intellect, if they hope to rescue her.

“They demanded that I come alone to an appointed location.” The young man says in a single breath.

“You’re staying!” Bond states with a resolute expression.

“Like hell I will!”

Q frowns deeply at Bond’s affirmation. He doesn’t even try to convince himself that it’s the most logical solution to what might be a trap. Bond, on the other hand, is trained for this kind of situation, so he knows how to approach them without being seen. He could accomplish the mission without much fuss, but those bastards are smarter than the average kidnapper. Their demand hadn’t had even the faintest hint of insecurity. They want Q; not Bond, not anyone else. The message is intended for him alone, and Q’s hunch tells him that they’re old enemies.

“You _are_ staying, Q!”

“She’s my friend!”

“She’s an agent.”

“Still my friend, no matter what title she might have!” Q says, not fazed a bit by Bond’s argument. He actually tilts his head up, crossing his arms like he’s daring the agent to deliver a comeback. “Now, let’s go after her.” He starts for the low, glass-table in front of the couch where his laptop and tablet are. He really does not care if Bond agrees or not.

“Q!” Bond growls, menacing, catching Q’s right arm to stop him.

It’s now that the Quartermaster reaches the point of no return, anger shooting through him at a high rate speed. His senses are so intoxicated with it that all external signals (pertaining to his five senses plus the sixth one) cease to reach his mind. In that moment, Q’s human traits prevail over all the other ones and Bond becomes the perfect target for his anger.

“That’s it! Now those stubborn ears of yours will hear me!” The Quartermaster murmurs, purposefully filling his tone with dangerous intent.

He turns around abruptly and steps into the agent’s personal space. An old intimidating trick, though he isn’t so sure it’ll work with the agent.

“You’re perfectly aware that with every bloody second we waste arguing she’s closer to death.” Q keeps his voice low, but heavy with how angry he is right now. “You’ll need a brain too, not just sheer force, to retrieve her, and I don’t give a rat’s arse if I’m being too sentimental about this matter or if I can’t go rescue her just because I’m a bloody civilian. I can take care of myself pretty damn well, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He affirms, taking another small step towards Bond. The wrinkles on the bridge of Q’s nose deepen lightly while he continues, “Besides, they won’t say where they are keep her unless I personally show up at a specific location they picked. So you either take me with you, or I’m going on my own. Whichever you choose, keep in mind that my presence is required on the field.” Their faces are so close that each of them can feel the breath of the other on their skin.

Bond can clearly see how rivulets of electric blue come to life behind Q’s spectacles. He’s almost mesmerized, but also curious about the little phenomenon, as he has never seen anything of the like happen to anyone’s eyes. However, he catches himself before he loses his focus entirely on the urgent matter at hand.

“Are you threatening me, Q?” Bond asks, torn between being truly shocked by how assertive his Quartermaster is about the situation or expressionless overall.

“Yes, for goodness sake!” Q flails, exasperated. “Now let’s _move_!”

Q is _this close_ to turning murderous. The blood boiling so hotly in his veins is a signal that the adrenaline won’t wear off so soon, though the anger died down a little. He quickly stops besides the low glass-table to collect his two indispensable pieces of tech for this on-british-soil mission it seems they’re on. He puts his laptop in its bag and keeps the tablet in his right hand.

“Are you coming or not?” Q asks, pausing in the small hallway, before the entrance door.

“Does M know about this? Or are we acting on our own accord?” Bond says, approaching Q a bit reluctantly, questioning.

“Mmm.” Q gives the agent a provocative and playful grin which 007 takes in like a fresh, highly alcoholic drink. It’s been a long time since he last saw that kind of grin on Q’s lips. No, scratch that. It’s been a hell of a long time since the Quartermaster has addressed him with any of his genuine, unguarded smiles. “Are you afraid to break some laws on british territory, 007?”

“Breaking laws is part of my job requirement, if you weren’t aware… _Q_.” Bond replies with his renowned charming smile, never once pausing in his steady approach. “I just wanted to know if I should call for backup, presuming that matters won’t go as smoothly as they usually do, since my Quartermaster will be the main attraction this time.”

Bond physically stops at a fair distance from the young man, not quite invading his personal space. Spiritually, though, Q feels him _much_ closer. Actually, his heart rate had increased tremendously in such a short span of time, the atmosphere becoming heavily charged with unspoken desire and naked want. Q is flooded by these intense feelings that Bond unashamedly exudes, and the visual contact doesn’t help much, as the agent’s irises express more than even words can.

“Right.” Q says for lack of a better reply. He quickly assesses his surroundings and his eyes fall on Alec’s car key. A smile spreads across his lips and he snaches them quickly from the pin that they were hanging on. “For this mission’s fastest means of transport we are generously sponsored by 006.”

“That’s Alec’s car key?” The agent asks, frowning slightly in disbelief.

“The one and only.”  Q places the key in question in Bond’s palm, grinning gleefully.

“It’s not possible.” He continues, studying it like this whole situation could be just a sham. ‘’He doesn’t let anyone… ‘’

“007, how do you think we arrived at my flat? Definitely not taking the Tube. There’s a certain limit the suspiciousness of a situation can reach and dragging a double-oh through all those CCTV would exceed that limit by far, don’t you think?” Q replies in his not-so-usual professional voice, given the fact that fractions of irony creep in. “Anyway, that’s another story you’ll want to hear when we secure Eve and take down those bloody bastards! Now, shall we?” He had already opened the door, and now he just waits for Bond to regain his composure.

“You still didn’t answer the ‘backup’ question.” He looks straight at Q, tightening his fingers around the car key.

“Ah, it’s been taken care of. I’ve sent a text with a brief description of the situation to M’s personal computer. We’re expected to call him on our way to the appointed location.” Q explains, with a complacent smile, and they head out.

The thrill of excitement Q feels right now is deliciously familiar to him, given the fact that for a short period of time he used to help his mother on her missions. Nobody, except for M, knows about it, because he kept it off-record.

The past, though, seems to have an itchy need to bite him in the arse, because back then it hadn’t been possible. After all, he (still) likes to be a slippery posh bastard.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

_**Our archaic ways** _

* * *

 

 

The engine of Alec’s car purrs as Bond accelerates. The London traffic isn’t so bad at almost 11 a.m, and that’s something of a relief since 007 doesn’t want to concentrate on the road so much as on the many disjointed pieces of his mind. It’s both the current situation and the mystery involving his Quartermaster. There’s also Bond’s itching need to know what happened to him after he most probably passed out in front of Q. If he struggles a bit more, though, he can almost remember their entire conversation back in Q Branch.

Still, the matter that holds most of his attention is Eve’s abduction and the rather unlikely request her abductors made. Bond doesn’t remember Q having enemies or hearing even the slightest hint that suggested the possibility. That’s why the abductors’ demand had come as a small shock to him.

He needs some answers. Actually, he needs a lot, but his intuition tells him that his Quartermaster wouldn’t tell Bond willingly. In fact, somewhere at the back of his mind, 007 knew that Q wouldn’t unveil anything about himself.

The situation is a bit desperate, even by the agent’s standards. There are too many pieces missing. Either that, or they’re right there under his nose, but so well hidden that he’s unable to see them. Still, Bond knows the time for revealing the truth (or part of it) is very close. He just needs to be patient.

“Your argument was invalid back there.” Bond suddenly comments, changing into second gear.

“It doesn’t matter, if it worked.” Q replies, absent-mindedly, his focus on the laptop’s screen.

Bond affords a quick glance at his Quartermaster. The man is concentrating so hard on the piece of tech that he’s oblivious to everything around him. He could easily pull the car into a parking lot and it would still take Q a couple of minutes to realize that they had stopped moving.

“Tricky little bastard.” He affirms, with a sly quirk of his mouth.

“I’m your Quartermaster, 007.” Q finally lifts his head to look at Bond.

“Still a tricky little bastard.” The agent responds, matter-of-factly.

The young man sighs, irritated, and closes his laptop, though he pulls out his mobile phone from his trouser pocket, dialing Mallory’s number. He places the device in its support, attached to the car’s dashboard. The speakers are already on.

“You should be keeping your mind busy with formulating a strategy.”

“You’re the brain here, remember? I’m just the brawn.” Bond shrugs, not quite looking at him, and instead focusing on the road.

“I didn’t say that.”

007 feels Q’s intense gaze on him, but he decides to play this little game and leave him be. After all, the game is only in Bond’s mind. He can afford a little distraction, before he needs to be in mission-mode.

“Yes you did, only in a posh way.”

The Quartermaster doesn’t reply instantly, though James feels that he wants to. Amusement prickles through Bond’s body, because he can almost hear the distinct sound of Q’s thoughts (if there could be such a thing) as they scramble around to create a witty comeback. However, nothing comes out from behind Q’s lips and the drive continues undisturbed for another couple of minutes.

“Q, what happened to us?” Bond asks suddenly, in a soft voice.

Q looks at him surprised and a bit confused, but then he catches on.

“Secrets and walls happened, 007.” He says after half a minute of silence, keeping all the emotion out of his voice.

Bond’s internal cringe at hearing Q’s cold reply manifests itself through the way he tightens his hands on the wheel. The truth always hurts, but Bond didn’t think it would actually make him feel so miserable. It’s funny how the agent sometimes finds himself wondering why their relationship didn’t work out.

They weren’t quite the perfect definition of a couple, but they were somewhere around it. As feelings went with Bond, he thought their sort of connection would last a bit, if not much, longer than a couple of months. It came as a truly shocking development of the situation when Q told him they were over. He wasn’t even capable of working his mouth into a short reply, which was a damn amusing thing in his case. Bond was never rendered speechless, especially not when the fall of an intimate relationship was announced by his partner, and not him.

Still, Q wasn’t Bond’s average ‘prey’. With him, the agent never felt like he was shagging another of his countless one night stands. With Q it felt real; more true than it had ever been. So it was a bittersweet torture to have the man seated next to him and be aware of the thick, cold wall which separated them.

Bond stopped the car and dared to fully turn his head and look at his Quartermaster. Once again, he was engrossed in whatever last details he had to put in place for this mission. It was a bit unusual to be beside him and not on the other side of the comm, miles away from England. Strands of black hair helped the glasses’ frame fully shield Q’s right eye so that Bond wasn’t able to see it. The line of his jaw gliding so smoothly to his chin would have to do for now, though. Still, he reached his hand to remove those playful locks of hair which obscured the path of Bond’s gaze to Q’s eye.

“Report.” Comes Mallory’s stern voice through Q’s mobile phone.

Bond lets his hand fall instantly onto the gearshift, professionally hiding his sigh.

“We’ve reached Saint Martin’s Street, sir.” The Quartermaster replies.

“Good. I’ve had agents placed throughout Trafalgar Square. The place is fully covered.”

“Thank you, sir.” Q says, and prepares to get out of the car, but not before giving Bond his comm so he can communicate with the other agents.

“Q?”

“Yes, sir.” He answers instantly, pausing his every action.

“Be careful out there.” M says after a moment of strained silence.

Q smiles and adds, “I will, sir.”

However, just before he can get out, Bond catches his right hand, pulling him back in. He swiftly uncovers his arm and pinches Q’s skin just below his shoulder with an unfamiliar sort of gun. _That_ certainly hadn’t been one that he had supplied.

“Ouch! What was that for?” He asks, torn between being angry and confused while covering the round, blood-shot mark left behind with his left hand. He’s not doing it because it hurts, but because he doesn’t want the  wound’s quick-healing process to catch Bond’s attention. All in all, it seems that anger wins this round, given the fact that he’s just been chipped, and with an _unfamiliar_ gun, no less. He doesn’t trust gadgets that haven’t been dismantled and personally inspected by him.

“Insurance.” Bond says in a neutral voice, keeping his eyes on Q’s face. “Just in case.”

They look at each other for a determined amount of time, the silence wrapping up around them like a protective cover. Q is the one who shatters the moment, finally getting out of the car. He covers his arm with his shirt-sleeve and starts walking ahead, not really waiting for the agent.

Trafalgar Square is swarming with people. It’s easy to lose sight of someone in the midsts of such a dynamic crowd, but Bond needs to keep a safe distance from Q, otherwise it will be too obvious he has protection. He tries to act casual, like he’s just taking a stroll through the square. Still, his eyes always dart to where Q is, making sure he’s alright and trying, at the same time, to spot any suspicious-looking people.

His Quartermaster is slowly making his way through the crowd, keeping his pace even. He has to reach Nelson’s Column and wait there for further notice. They don’t know who will make contact with him, when, or if they will even risk being caught by sending someone there.

“The target has reached the appointed location. I’m at two hundred feet away and in position.” Bond says as low as he can, scanning the people surrounding Q, but not getting anything unusual from it.

“003 at ten feet away,” another agent reports in the comm. “Full view of the target.” James spots him slightly behind Q, with a newspaper in his hands.

The moments leak rapidly into minutes and there’s no suspicious movement around Nelson’s Column. If only Bond knew specifically what he was searching for, it would be a thousand times easier. He actually feels an unrelenting scratch at the back of his mind for this reason; the dead silence on the comm is frustrating. There would always be Q’s calm voice to keep Bond company or to guide him through minefields. Bond is so used to knowing that wherever he might end up, he could always count on Q to find him and send a retrieval team to collect his scarred body, that seeing the man standing there in front of the column is unnerving. He is, after all, Bond’s ‘spare’ pair of eyes and he has come to trust him implicitly.

Now, though, that lithe body is on display for everybody to see and, possibly, to hurt. This knowledge tugs at his protective side, because he would be much more at ease knowing that Q was within MI6’s safe (as much as they could be) walls. 007 is the one who is thoroughly acquainted with such situations; he’s the one with the ability to turn the tables if matters become perilous. Bond is the agent, not Q, but this time _he_ is the one that has to think objectively and see the situation as the mission that it is.

Then it happens. For a couple of seconds the crowd somehow multiplies before Bond, creating an odd, moving wall that shields Q from his sight.

“I’ve lost the target.” Bond hears the agent that was within ten feet from Q say in a clipped voice.

The amount of epinephrine that invades James’ bloodstream and major muscles is tremendous and the tingling alarm haywires his senses. It’s instantaneous. His feet get to work immediately and he soon makes it to the other end of the crowd, only to find himself with Nelson’s Column in front of him but no Q anywhere in his proximity. He looks around, searching for that familiar face until he sees it.

“He’s in a black Volvo V60.” The agent immediately says and jumps right in front of a car, the screeching sound of suddenly-halted tires echoing throughout Trafalgar Square.

Bond rounds the car, going straight for the driver’s seat. The man doesn’t manage to finish his colourful sentence of swears, because Bond pulls him out, taking his place. He starts the car with the same drastic sound as when it was stopped, as 007 can’t really suppress the anger that floods him. Either that, or it’s just an unusual kind of adrenaline he had never experienced, making him feel murderous, scared, pumped up and angry all at the same time. The mix is almost numbing, because usually, this sort of situation always makes the thrill of the chase feel like an exquisite cocktail.

This one time, though, the matters are slightly different.  

 

* * *

 

The restraints aren’t strong enough to hold his hands if he were to apply just a bit more pressure than usual; he already made sure of that. However, the only detail that’s slightly putting him off is the velvet bag that one of his abductors has shoved on his head. They’re clever, Q will give them that. All he can smell is the strong scent of jasmine which threatens to make him feel nauseous. Q tries to talk to them, but it seems they aren’t inclined to utter a single word until, probably, they arrive at their destination.

Right. Eve. She’s certainly there, waiting for someone at MI6 to get their arses back to work and find her. Q is positive that she’s been incapacitated and most definitely restrained, so she wouldn’t be able to fight back. If there is something Q can always count on, it is Moneypenny’s determination to not give up until she succeeds. He’s slightly worried about what they might’ve done to her, though.

They come to a full stop, then climb out of the car. Q can’t see or smell a damn thing. His hearing is the only sense that can give actual information to his brain, but it’s useless. There are no revealing sounds whatsoever. Only three pairs of steps shatter the silence of tomb that seems to surround them.

There’s a door that’s being pushed and almost immediately he finds himself climbing down iron stairs. Straight away, he starts making a sketchy map of the places he’s shoved through, using the distinct noises his trained ears can pick up. However, it is one major sound that determines his location: they’re under the Tube’s lines, somewhere about thirty-five minutes away from Trafalgar Square by car.

They stop and Q is shoved into a metal chair. Only when they secure his hands, this time with real, strong handcuffs that are linked to the chair’s backrest, do they take off the hateful velvety bag with its strong and stuffy jasmine perfume.

He immediately takes in his surroundings.

“This looks like a horrendous replica of that Russian torture room from eight years ago. Did it rub off on you, guys?” Q comments calmly, if a bit sardonically.

The echo of his voice gives him a hint about the diameter of the room. It swings from being big to excessively large and there’s also the humid air and the wet floor that Q swiftly takes in consideration. Both details tell him there’s at least one pipe passing through the room. Right at that moment, a drop of water falls on his right lens and he sighs. It seems there’s one above his head along with a suspended light bulb, which casts a large, yellowish circle all around him.

The one thing that reminds Q of a submarine is the concave iron walls, even though they’re rusty from all the humidity.

The assessment doesn’t last much longer as a second metal chair is thrown in the circle, gliding a few inches forward. Immediately after, a young man in his late twenties straddles the chair, and rests his forearms on the backrest that’s revolved to face Q. The first unusual trait that he sees is an ash-grey lock of hair that caresses the left side of the guy’s face. Not very unusual, though, since he's distinctly familiar with it (to his chagrin).

“How’s life, mate?” A toothy smile and a distinct Ukrainian accent greets him.

“Peaceful and calm, I’d say. You know, getting a job, renting a flat, doing the shopping, feeding the pigeons… the Londoner’s usual daily life.” Q shrugs innocently, a large part of him purposefully believing his lie just to give it credibility.

The man in his late twenties throws his head back and starts laughing.

“You haven’t lost your sense of humour at all, even after all these years.” He says, a feral glint shining in his eyes as their gazes lock.  

Q knew he wouldn’t buy it, but it was worth a try. It reminded him of the old days. Now, though, he reflects that feral glint in his own eyes. There’s time enough for reminiscence, but right now Q must take care of the urgent matters at hand.

“Where is she, Ash?” He asks, assessing him carefully.

“Behind you.” A gruff voice intercedes, and Q’s eyes are instantly drawn to the half-lit profile of a well-built body.

The heavy Russian accent would be recognizable even to half-deaf ears. He doesn’t turn his head to make sure. Q’s familiar enough with him to know that macabre honesty is a trait that defines him.

“What’s with this charade, then, Art?” Q addresses the question to the one standing behind Ash.

Before Art has the time to answer, though, Q’s being turned around to face the other wall where Eve is. His annoyed huff echoes off the iron walls. In the meantime, Ash’s arms rest on Q’s shoulders and his fresh mint breath caresses Q’s right ear and cheek. He immediately studies Eve’s unconscious body. Even though she’s enveloped in the obscurity of the shadows, his eyes can see as clearly as if it were daylight. Eve seems to be in a pretty good state. She looks like she’s just sleeping. They must have drugged her Q hadn’t even noticed that his chest was tight with worry. Only now that he knew she was safe could he feel a dead weight lifting off his shoulders.

Now his mind can concentrate on other necessary tasks. He has a feeling, though, that this whole fiasco is more about tying up loose ends than anything else. He hopes, anyway.

“You don’t seem too worried about your friend here, even though she’s the only one that can be described as your best friend. That is, after me, of course.” Q simply knows that another toothy smile is spreading across his face.

“I see you’ve done your research. Should I deduce that you spied on me for a long time before you finally made a move?” He asks bitterly, a wry smile on his lips.

“Exac -- “

“Irrelevant.” Art interrupts, his heavy boots echoing in a continuous wave of sound. He stops besides Q’s chair. “Though I must admit, MI6 guards its Quartermaster pretty well.” He adds, every word rolling off his tongue with disgust. “I had to do some little detours for us to lose him. That pain in the arse agent!” Art flutters his hand dismissively.

Q doesn’t look up at him, because he knows he’ll do something crazy and nonsensical. The situation probably _needs_ some hot-blooded action, but Sage is behind them. He silently follows the scene from within the shadows, where he always prefers to be and from where he acts. Q has never been able to win a fight against him, so he won’t risk anything. Yet.

“That’s right, El.” Ash speaks after a short break, straightening up and placing himself in front of Q. “How come you can manage to stand them?”

“Do be more specific, Ash.” Q says bitterly, though he doesn’t show any emotion on his face.

“Humans, Elijah. I still can’t manage to explain how an ego that large can fit into such a limited space.” Ash flails his hands dramatically, pacing lightly within the distance of the lit circle. “And to be surrounded by so many --” An ugly grimace befalls on his face. “My skin crawls just at the mere thought of it.”

“It’s called practice, Ash. A hell of a lot of practice,” There is a short pause, and their gazes lock, mocking each other as they had done years ago. “Just like I had with _you_ lot.” Q smirks, and it seems that Ash has finally learned how to roll his eyes effectively. “Okay, mates, when will you tell me what it is that you want from me? You’re kind of running out of time here.”

“Eryth has turned rogue.” Art speaks this time, letting out an angry growl at the end.

“You mean your boss is more rogue than he already was?” Q raises an eyebrow sceptically, not buying it.

“Yes, mate. He’s turned red on us.”

“Well, he is red when he transforms.” Q shrugs and Ash starts to chuckle.

There’s a whole second in which they exchange knowing looks, as if they’re teenagers, before Art ruthlessly interrupts the ‘connection’.

“This action of his does not only have repercussions for our kind, _dog_. Humans are also involved in this.” Art comments in a stoic way, his hands folded at his back like he’s reporting on a mission to his commander.

“Call me dog again and I’ll slit your throat where you stand!” Q threatens between clenched teeth, slightly bigger than a human’s as he knows that he can freely display bits of his true form down here amongst ‘his’ kind (generally speaking, of course). The electric blue rivulets are back, swimming again within his dark eyes.

He knows that slitting someone’s throat requires a sharp object, which he doesn’t have on him right now, but he trusts their intelligence to look beyond Q’s seemingly inoffensive human form. A dead silence crushes the light mood and Q might start steaming with anger, but he cools his temper and the calm falls back on his shoulders like a loving mantle.

“So what it is that you want me to do? Hunt him down and tear him to shreds? I thought you were more than capable of doing that.” Q comments in a cold voice. “Actually, it’s your special trait. It defines you to the point I’m not even sure if I’m talking to a well-mannered species or some gruesome -- “

“Would you kindly shut your cocky mouth and listen to all the details?” Ash interrupts him. “I bet you’re going to be out of your skin when you’ll hear it.” He winks, smiling mysteriously.

Velvety traits of irony have been poured out together with his last sentence and Q has a bad feeling about it.

“Eryth managed to infiltrate MI6.” Art says flatly.

“What?” Q’s eyes go wide with shock. “You’re kidding! If he were there I would’ve _smelt_ him from miles away. You foxes have a very distinct odour. Usually my nose stings, if I stay for so --” He falls quiet mid-sentence as his eyes widen again. “He used that serum to --”

“No.” Art interrupts him with an unnerving calm. “They discovered that it had deadly side effects, and they stopped producing it, but Eryth found a way around it. It doesn’t turn you completely into a human, but for ten straight hours your odour is entirely masked to our kind. The tricky part is the fact that you won’t smell of anything, not even human flesh.”

Q takes a couple of minutes to process the information, his brain putting the pieces into the right place. He does _not_ like the final result.

“Then, don’t tell me the purpose of this whole charade was solely to tell me about Eryth.” Q says and it doesn’t take long to see the answer written all over their faces. “You sodding idiots! Are you literally trying to get yourselves killed?” He asks, pushed beyond his limits of patience. “Please tell me you actually have an escape plan, one that goes from plan A all the way through to Z, just to be on the safe side. Just _humour_ me!”

“We’re assassins, darling, of _course_ we have an escape plan. One you needn’t know about, _just to be on the safe side_ , as you’ve put it.” Ash grins, humourless.

“You’re still thoroughly, achingly bloody morons!” Q says in a quiet voice, watching his ‘mate’.

“Well, we couldn’t have sauntered into MI6 and declared that there was an infiltrated assassin amongst you, could we now?” Art intercedes, his tone matter-of-factly.

“Still, there are a hundred more effective ways to contact me, anything from sending me an email to a handwritten letter! Hell! Even a pigeon carrier would have done the trick. I’m not so arrogant as to not help you, if the matter is explained properly, you know?” His tone almost turns admonishing.

Foxes and werewolves aren’t known to be the best of friends, but they’re not at war with each other either. Their issues had fallen under the unwritten rule of “each to his own business”, so it wasn’t such a rare thing that these kind of useless situations were born. If Q had discovered a common trait between foxes and werewolves, then it was surely the arrogance.

“I told them, but they never listen.” Sage’s rasping voice fills the room for the first time.

Everybody ignores him.

“What can we say? We like our archaic ways of doing things.” Ash comments, his smug expression painting his face elegantly.

“Bloody cavefoxes!” Q throws the words with bitterness, his posh accent elegantly rolling off his tongue.

“Easy with your compliments, mate. I might feel flattered.” His old roommate’s comeback pulls out a half-arsed grin from the Quartermaster.

“The problem is that Eryth is extracting information from MI6’s database and selling it overseas.” Art continues, undisturbed by the innocent bicker between the two.

“You could say he got bored of doing it within our world, so he turned his gaze upon humans.” Ash adds.

“Which means Char’s behind this.” Q half-whispers, frowning deeply.

“You bet he is.” His old (best) friend affirms.

“He’s the only one who can teach him how to become the perfect technician.”

“Bugger!” Q swears under his breath.

There’s movement behind the door and all three of their heads dart up to the noise.

* * *

 

The door is violently pushed to the wall and Bond enters with his Walther held high, ready to shoot anything. It’s Q’s familiar face that greets him. His gaze doesn’t halt on any threat and his slightly crouched posture relaxes a bit. Bond swiftly approaches Q’s chair.

“Are you alright?” He asks, crouching down to see to Q’s handcuffs, even though he still remains vigilant and ready to react.

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. Eve’s there, on the mattress. I think they drugged her.” Q speaks quickly, in his usual posh tone.

Bond stops at the other agent’s side and takes her vitals.

“Her pulse is regular, but she’s out cold.” He says tonelessly, shrugging off his suit jacket and covering her from her shoulders to her hip.

“We need to get her out of here immediately.” Q affirms, and Bond takes a few steps into the yellowish light.

“Yes, but for now, my suit jacket will have to do. First, I need to remove your handcuffs.”

He starts towards Q, but the young man stops him when he’s only two steps away from his chair and blurts out, “You can’t.”

He tries to look Bond in the eye, but his gaze wavers from side to side.

007 raises a brow as if his Quartermaster just told him he’s not actually a spy.

“The key is in a… complicated place.” He says quietly.

“A what?” The agent asks, obviously confused.

Q lets out a short sigh.

“In my boxers.” He says quietly, forcing himself to meet 007’s gaze.

Bond looks at his Quartermaster, dumbfounded. He could always use… No. No. He’s definitely enjoying this turn of events too much to want to spoil everything just because Q seems to have forgotten Bond’s skills with locks. He closes in the distance between them and starts unbuckling Q’s belt, watching closely his every twitch of the face and there are a handful which trigger Bond’s oh-I’m-thoroughly-enjoying-this kind of grin.

On Q’s side, matters are slowly becoming hot and he knows his suddenly intake of a breath doesn’t go unnoticed when Bond unzips his trousers, but he can’t help it. Neither does he have the power of spirit to withstand that piercing and feral gaze the agent pins him under. He pointedly looks to the ceiling, because he’s damn sure he’ll respond to him and he’s not going to throw away the bloody amount of time and energy he spent building up his protective walls again.

Q feels 007’s hand inside his boxers. The intrusion does strange things to him.

_Shitshitshitshit!_

It’s like his skin is being electrocuted, creating intense waves of goosebumps all over his body. However, this is only the mild part of it; there’s also the rapidly-rising issue of a hard-on. Q quickly revolves his attention to the last part of the discussion he had with Ash and Art, hoping that the anger will help him keep at bay the inappropriate reaction to Bond’s touch.

 

(“We _need you to find him and create an opening for us. We’ll take it on from then.’ Art finishes, looking like a stoic sculpture._

_Shortly after, his gaze lands on Q._

_“How will I be able to contact you?”_

_“You need not worry about that, Ash will take care of it.” Art says, and he starts for the door opposite Q._

_However, Ash moves closer to his old roommate. He rests a hand on the top of the chair’s backrest and leans in as his other hand slightly removes the two layers of clothing from the Quartermaster’s skin._

_“This is your punishment for being a cocky little bastard with your old friend.” Ash winks and lets the key to Q’s handcuffs fall in his boxers. “I’d very much like to stay behind and see who’s going to be the winner that gets to put their hands in your trousers! Well, maybe another time.” Q’s eyes turn murderous and he tries to get to him, but the handcuffs stop him._

_The man starts to chuckle darkly, as he makes it to the door behind which, Art and Sage disappeared seconds ago._

_‘“Oi! **Fox** ! “ Q deliberately growls._

_“See you, mate!” Ash salutes him as he closes the door._ )

The handcuffs are already off when Q returns to himself. He quickly buckles up his trousers, just before the room fills up with innumerable divisions of MI6.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thoroughly enjoyed writing the scene between the foxes and Q. Laughed at my own jokes, actually (until I've read them too many times and they lost their appeal >.>).
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it ^^


	3. Chapter 3

  _ **The impossible becomes possible**_

* * *

 

The MI6 they find is a _glorious_ mess.

To be more specific, it is a frantic Q-Branch that welcomes Bond and Q, minions running frantically from one uncertain point to another, documents almost flying around and the clamour of voices and (more often than not) shouting making for a stupendous cacophony. Stupendous in the wrong way; the tension is only a step away from being palpable to a human’s dimmed senses, even though Q can already taste it. Not his favourite dish, honestly.

All of it, though, is adding up to the chaos that is silently begging for someone to take control and calm down the frenzy. Q’s section of work will always need an orchestrator, someone to take a firm hold of  the reins, someone who knows how to turn this mad movement into a beautiful and productive flow.

They will always need Q. That’s for sure.

“Sir!” R appears at his side, the desperate look on his face making Q feel like he is  the last hope of these fools. _His_ fools; and it wouldn’t be far from the actual truth. “Q-Branch is in chaos!”

“That I can see, R.” He replies calmly, maybe a bit too calm for what his eyes see.

He’s also absentmindedly rubbing at his wrists, one at a time. Bond doesn’t let it escape his attention, though he says nothing. He silently stands at Q’s other side, as if he’s guarding his Quartermaster from whatever harm might come from his minions. It might be true, it might not be. In any case, he remains an inch or two inside Q’s personal space, watching the horror that is Q-Branch continue its frenzy.

“You are late.” R says as composed as he can, but the desperation leaks into his words anyway. “I’m not even sure how I managed to contain this chaos from devolving into an onslaught.”

“I see.” Q replies, never taking his eyes from the chaos. “Miss Moneypenny?”

“She arrived fifteen minutes before you. She’s now stable and should wake up any minute.” R switches to his professional tone, being one of the first lessons he learned from Q. “I have her full medical report.” He extends the report for Q to take it and examine.

“Later.” He flutters one hand dismissively.

What’s in front of him has to take precedence, because the urgency is in plain view for everybody to see it. Still, they say he’s a ruthless bastard. Well, now. People should study the facts properly before jumping to conclusions. He is already showing mercy by putting them on top of everything else.

He rubs at one of his wrists again.

Bond’s eyes fall surreptitiously on the movement, as if they’re moths and Q’s wrist is the light. He speaks nothing of it again.

“Sir, are you alright?” R asks him and Q turns his head to look at him for the first time since he came in. It is also his way of saying “What?” without actually saying it. He doesn’t follow his assistant’s gaze, because he knows where it is locked.

Somehow self-consciously and a bit annoyed, he lets his arms fall limply at his side. The bruised skin on his wrists already misses the constant attention of his fingers.

“I want a full report on what has gotten into my minions.” He declares firmly.

“That will be a pointless report.” Comes Bond’s response, every word wrapped up in a gruff tone. “ _Quartermaster_.” The stress on his title is back again and has a bigger impact on Q than previously, it seems.

It does not prevent the jolt that crashes into his body, a hint of arousal at the end of it like a cherry on top of a cake.

It is surely the fault of his adrenaline-induced body, however faint the traces are. Most definitely. He can’t find another explanation otherwise.

“A body without a head will always thrash around uselessly.” He adds coolly, an amused smirk on his lips before turning around and starting to head away from Q’s problems.

“M wants both of you in his office,” R manages to say, before Bond gets out of earshot. “As soon as Q-Branch is restored to his functional state, that is.” He continues, pointing the information more to Q than the agent.

“Of course.” Half sarcasm, half amusement intermingles in Q’s tone, already striding in the opposite direction to Bond.

 

* * *

An hour and a half later (Q-Branch rebooted to its productive and harmonious state) they are standing in Mallory’s office, one question after another being asked by both M and (occasionally) Tanner. It seems the latter holds the position of "filling in the bits that escape the attention of his Boss". Nonetheless, it is Tanner that has a tablet in his hands, while Mallory just assesses both 007’s and Q’s face as he continues debriefing them.

Neither of the people being questioned sits down on the chairs just mere inches in front of them. It seems that not even the Quartermaster likes the inquiry. The atmosphere does not send waves of tension towards Q, but it is slightly off-beat.

There isn’t a uniform glide to the sensations he picks up.

Every person in that room is sending different waves of emotions slamming viciously into Q’s senses. It’s so close to torture that he almost gives in to his primal instinct of self-preservation to flee M’s office immediately. He’s desperately itching for a shower, so it’s only natural that he wants to end things sooner rather than later, and finally take his leave.

“They only wanted to talk about their leader, who has supposedly infiltrated  MI6?” M repeats, looking sceptically at Q, neither buying it nor dismissing it entirely.

“Yes, sir.” The Quartermaster affirms, his face unreadable.

“Then why did it require Miss Moneypenny’s abduction?”

At this question, Q’s expression softens almost imperceptibly.

“Well, sometimes they do have their moments of stupidity, sir, especially now, since their leader is off playing games. I suppose it’s a trait they’d picked up back in Slovenia.”

“Sir.” Tanner intercedes, giving the tablet to M.

There are a couple of seconds of pure silence and Q subtly looks at Bond from the corner of his eye. The agent seems calm, if a bit annoyed. Well, if Q was to make a list of double-ohs who would deliberately delete the word debriefing (along with its synonyms) from the world’s dictionaries, Bond would come first on the list.

He finds it bitterly amusing how 007 is always on top of his every list concerning MI6’s agents.

“Erythraenean?” Mallory rises one doubtful brow.

“Yes.” Q nods slightly, but M’s pointed look urges him to elaborate.

He would be required to unmask his true identity regarding his nature, and even though both Mallory and Tanner know about it and other particular things concerning his kind, he’s not quite prepared to divulge it to Bond. After all, he managed to have an intimate relationship with the man and he never once caught a whiff of anything. Of course, that’s because Q took extra care with masking his werewolf’s reactions and habits.

“It means reddish.” He adds after a good minute of patient silence. “That’s his colour when he transforms.” Q can’t pretend he didn’t see the way Bond looked at him.

It’s something that the agent would have discovered sooner or later. Maybe right now is actually the perfect time to let him in on the mystery involving Q. Or not. Still, he started explaining, why not continue?

“Foxes are named after the colour of their fur. Even if they are part of a secret organization within their world, they do not take on code names. Well, when dealing with the human world, they do sound like code names, but they’re not.”

Q feels the confusion that swims in Bond. He knows the agent is itching to ask for clarifications, but it seems he’s containing himself for the moment.

“Nonetheless,” He continues after a brief moment. “I don’t have information about his name. I don’t even know what he looks like, so I can’t even help create a digital portrait of him. He had always been a bit paranoid about it, always wearing a mask even when he was among his kind, so the only one that might know how he really looks like is Char, his second-in-hand.”

“The one that helped him get into MI6.” M sounds thoughtful.

“Yes, sir.” Q answers, but after a short pause he adds, “I would have dealt with this situation before it devolved into this mess, but I’m not able to pick up his scent since he used a chemical that cuts off all kind of bodily odours. Foxes have a very… strong scent.”

The Quartermaster’s nose crinkles with something resembling distaste, but it’s only his memories of having to share a room with a fox that triggered that reaction. Whatever the weather was outside, the window had to stay open. Well, until they had managed to solve the problem - sort of.

“Although, as Eryth’s minions said, right now he doesn’t smell of anything, not even human flesh. This could make things easier, except that I don’t think I’ll pass as anything less than a creep if I start sniffing every worker within the building. Also, chances are he will escape before I reach him.”

“We could always shut down the building and declare a state of quarantine for an indeterminate amount of time. Nobody gets out or in.” Bond suggests casually.

M assess the agent coldly and says, “Of course we could do that,” and Q is damn sure just now that was a strong wave of sarcasm coming from him. “But you forget, 007, that you’re in England and this is about MI6, not just your usual agency.” He locks his steely gaze on Bond’s one. “I don’t need to remind you how that kind of action would work at our disadvantage. We need to be tactful in taking care of this issue.”

The silence falls down with a suffocating intensity as the two of them continue gazing at each other. The shudder in Q is imperceptible, but it is there nonetheless. M’s words and the gravity with which they rolled off of his tongue dissolved into the warm air like a toxin.

MI6 will suffer some heavy repercussions if news of an infiltrated threat fall on wrong ears. They are still working hard toward reaching the ideal 100% re-establishment of the organization after the last blow they suffered. It has almost completely destroyed not only the building, but people’s faith and hope they had in the organization too. Of course M will do anything in his power to prevent a repeat.  

Tanner speaks up this time, and Q can’t determine if his tone of voice is painted with fear or too much respect. He somehow ends up with the conclusion that it’s a mix of both.

“Sir, we could declare a state of general alert, but inform only the agents to be on guard --”

“With all due respect, sir,” Q interrupts, knowing it’s _very_  rude of him. “But I don’t think it’s a wise idea to alert the agents of a possible threat within TSS. The tension amidst the workers will increase tremendously, if the double-ohs get wind of this problem. They’ll be looming in Q-Branch all day every day like hawks and our mole might sniff that his cover has been blown.”

“Then what do you suggest, Quartermaster?” M asks, looking closely at Q.

“I recommend that the information remains in this room. Possibly let Miss Moneypenny in on it, if she’s deemed fit for it. She might be a valuable asset for this behind-the-curtain mission.”

“Very well.” M concedes after considering his point. “You may take your leave.”

“Sir.” Q salutes, then exits the office.

 

* * *

 

The hot spray hits his nape with such intensity he shudders uncontrollably. He doesn’t move to set the temperature a bit lower, because his strained muscles welcome the strong sensation. Soon, the vapours cloud the glass doors and Q finally feels his body relaxing.

It’s been a long day for him.

He tilts his head up and lets the water massage his scalp. It’s so good and soothing that he’s very close to falling asleep there. It’s a bit early to sleep, though. Only twenty minutes to four. He remembers because he checked before entering the shower.

Q flexes his shoulders to shrug off a bit of the sleepiness and then proceeds with actually cleaning himself up.

When he gets out, he swiftly dries his body with a big, grey towel and violently shakes his head, splashing droplets all over the bathroom’s walls.

He has done it again, but it’s not like he has to hide it. Here, in his own flat, he can be as much of a werewolf as he wants and nobody will protest.

He wraps the same big towel he used to dry himself around his waist and goes into the bedroom to choose his clothes.

The only problem, though, is the sudden warning alert his senses convey to his brain as soon as he sets foot on the bordeaux carpet.

There’s another person in his flat.

This knowledge releases a large quantity of adrenaline within his body. He tiptoes to the open door leading to the living room and makes sure he won’t be seen from the other room. He waits a couple of seconds, keeping his breathing as soft as he can. The quiet of the flat almost has him believing it was a false alarm, but the unrelenting feeling of the presence of another breathing creature within the walls of his flat, suggests it’s better to remain in combat form.

He slowly moves his head closer to the door frame and peeks into his living room.

Well, now.

Q shouldn’t be so surprised that his eyes take in 007’s familiar profile instead of a stranger’s. He exhales, both relieved and annoyed.

"How did you get in?" Q starts in an opaque tone, stepping out. "I always lo--" He trails off as Bond dangles his (rather famous, wouldn’t you think?) lock-pick between two fingers, giving his Quartermaster a hungry once-over (probably unaware of it).

It was obvious, though.

That lock-pick almost never parts with its owner.

Q shouldn’t have asked in the first place, but he still looks quizzically at the object, a nasty feeling tumbling around in his head. He knows a light should flicker on somewhere, a wave of realization should hit him hard and make him feel dumb for not realizing it sooner. Irritatingly (beyond his comprehension), he can’t seem to be able to put his finger on it.

 _Damn bloody thing!_ Q thinks wryly as he sits on the arm of the matching black armchair, not so distant from where Bond lounges on the sofa. He hooks his right leg on it, unaware of the alluring V the edges of his towel leave on the other leg. Apparently, Q has other things to think about than the unashamed lust present in the agent’s eyes.

By the position Bond is sitting in, Q wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to rest his calves on the low glass table or splay comfortably on the black piece of furniture.

Bond does neither. Instead, he looks at Q, his intense gaze studying him from head to toe (again), selfishly pausing on certain parts of the younger man. The Quartermaster sees the birth of many snarky remarks within his eyes, but he doesn’t let any of them shape on his tongue.

They share the silence for a determined time, gazing upon each other (when the studying ends) as if they just discovered they’re capable of telepathy.

"I take it you deliberately broke into my flat because Mallory didn’t explain much about the situation. Am I correct?" Q asks in his usual calm tone.

He should be put off by the intrusion. After all, this is his flat, a private place where work (specifically, the one that’s made of flesh and bones) should remain on his doormat instead of sauntering in and making itself feel at home.

Strangely, he isn’t.

Probably those months he shared a physical relationship with the agent mischievously created a dysfunction within the _uppermost_ functions of his brain -  the section that actually did a hell of a great job in keeping all the pieces together.

"More or less." Bond says, his expression unreadable, all the while his gaze never leaving Q’s face. "He did let me know about the existence of the werewolves alongside foxes and that my Quartermaster is the former."

_My Quartermaster._

Q gulps subtly and lets another minute pass by, his gaze locked on Bond’s.

Did Bond strategically place that possessive in the sentence to throw Q off, or was it just a slip of the tongue? He’s itching to ask, to know which one it is, but right now the situation doesn’t let any space for silly questions.

He can’t manage to grasp what Bond’s thinking, though, not even by subtly smelling the air. The agent has shut down his emotions completely. Q’s sure that right now he is weighing up the situation from the objective point of view he takes when difficult issues present themselves in a very suspicious way.

He ought to be ruthless before deciding what his next move should be.

"Is it true?"

"Yes, it is." Q responds with a dead seriousness that’s unlike him.

Bond just searches his face and for a couple of seconds he doesn’t utter a word. Well, it is hard to formulate a sentence that doesn’t border on being too sarcastic for how edgily the situation presents itself.

"You don’t believe me." Q states, assessing Bond’s face carefully.

"It’s hard to believe." He says neutrally, and then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, "For me."  

The young man stands up and takes a few steps away from the armchair. It’s something he has been preparing himself for, ever since he left M’s office about an hour ago, but he never thought it would make him feel so much like a monster. Technically he is one, if he chooses to give in to his other side, but he has become so used to being a human that he constantly dismisses the crude truth. If it weren’t for his developed senses, he would have forgotten all about who he really was.

That’s right.

Q will never be entirely human, even if he prays for it. He had come to terms with it long ago, but the nervousness that spreads so rapidly through his body isn’t helping him a one bit. He’s actually anxious about how will Bond receive the actual proof regarding what, in theory, he already knows Q is.

He feels so bloody edgy being _the_ proof and not _the one_ that proves. Still, he gathers every ounce of strength he finds he still has in him and starts talking. Maybe if he focuses on something else, he can skip past the shifting phase and the other man’s reaction to it and arrive at the end of this situation. Maybe.

“It seems that life taught you to rely more on your instincts and senses than on mere words." Q begins, looking Bond in the eyes. "Fair enough. Nevertheless, that only means you’ve sharpened them to help you hunt down humans. You’re a predator amongst your kind. So animalic and primal, don’t you think?" Q asks rhetorically, cuping one side of his face and smiling mysteriously.

He lets his inner animal resurface, then he releases his towel and lets it fall beside him.

"Still, who am I to criticize you? I myself rely heavily on my senses to determine what is the best way to act in my everyday environment."

With that being said, the shifting begins slowly, almost torturously so, letting 007 take in all the details his brain so hungrily wants to see.

Before Bond’s eyes, the impossible becomes possible and he can’t help but feel shocked, his eyes going visibly wide. In front of him there’s a wolf, but bigger than an average one. By his calculation he must be at least one metre tall. His fur is charcoal black, which gives a mesmerizing intensity to Q’s now electric blue eyes.

He catches sight of a subtle line of faded gray, almost white, that spirals down on his Quartermaster’s front, right leg

Spontaneously, Q jumps onto the sofa next to Bond. This triggers the agent’s quick response, his hand gripping his Walther from its holster and pointing it directly at his Quartermaster-turned-werewolf’s forehead. It’s only the calm that he preserves within his eyes and the way rivulets of azure keep moving within his irises like tiny electric snakes that stop Bond from pulling the trigger. He’s mesmerized by them and for a couple of seconds everything seems to be suspended, as if time entered a void space and every moment stretches on for indeterminate minutes.

"Christ, Q!" The agent exhales shakily, forcing himself to break eye contact. "I almost blew your brains out."

He reluctantly holsters the gun, because he can’t shake the surge of adrenaline that’s been released throughout his body at such short notice. He constantly reminds himself that the creature beside him is actually _his bloody Quartermaster_. The same person whom the voice on the comm belongs to.

The werewolf doesn’t make a single sound. It just looks at Bond with an unnerving and still calmness. It makes 007 shiver at the thought that now, even more so than when he is human, Q is totally unreadable. He could attack him anytime, a spontaneous action just like the jump on the sofa he performed mere seconds ago.

Q shifts back to his naked, human form before Bond’s instincts of self-preservation kick in. The expression he wears now is an impenetrable, calm mask. He’s good at keeping his internal chaos to himself. Sometimes, when it’s too overwhelming (but he stubbornly refuses to let it all out, anyway) he has a background feeling that what he’s doing is wrong; so wrong, he doesn’t even begin to comprehend how much.

"When would you have told me about this?" Bond asks, this time not looking at him, but letting his head fall on the backrest of the sofa and finally closing his eyes.

The fact that his Quartermaster is not entirely human seems to exceed in seriousness the reality that there’s a very naked, very tempting Q at arm’s length.

"I wouldn’t have… " He responds quietly, studying the way Bond’s chest goes up and down in time with his breath. "I’m good at keeping my other side to myself, but I suppose you would have discovered it sooner or later."

The agent opens his eyes and looks at him. He then turns towards Q, facing him completely, and dares to cup his jaw with his right hand, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"You mean, I would have _accidentally_ discovered your little secret.” He crooks softly, then he adds, “Though, I suppose I would have been unable to acknowledge the other… you."

The comment seems to trigger something in Q, because his expression wavers for a split second, but then falls back in place as if nothing has happened.

"Christ, I shagged a werewolf." Bond whispers, realization just now dawning on him.

"Quartermaster-werewolf." Q corrects him. "And technically, you didn’t. I’d need to change into that form to --" He suddenly trails off, because the agent’s expression is so candid that it’s almost unbearable to watch.

There is a heavy silence surrounding them and it takes Q a few moments to realize that Bond’s hand remained cupped on his cheek, absent-mindedly stroking it with his thumb.

"I still haven’t sorted out… my feelings, so if you don’t mind… " Q says, tilting his head in the opposite direction of the agent’s hand.

It lasts only for a fleeting moment, but he catches Bond’s surprise and hurt at his remark. It sets off a painful swell in his chest, too, and his mind is desperately trying to cope with it. The alarms start to ring in his head and Q knows he’s too close to being overwhelmed by the force of his feelings. The damn _reason_ they’re still alive and about in his mind and heart is a few inches away from him.

He had come to acknowledge that he would surely destroy his inner self first, before putting at rest his clutter of emotions.

_Painfully ironic, this bloody mess._

Q’s internal wry smile is more miserable than last time.

He gulps, not really meeting the agent’s eyes.

"It hurts, James." The words come out in a soft whisper; so soft, Bond thinks he imagined them, but then, Q continues in a firmer tone, though his voice remains soft and low. "It hurts craving and not having the thing that you desire the most completely yours. It’s bloody annoying now, since I’ve never felt possessive of you."

"That’s because I never gave you a reason to." Bond gives him a small smile that doesn’t connect with his eyes. He somehow seems to avoid acknowledging the first,  and most important, half of Q’s reply.

It’s the first time he sees the sorrow painted on Q’s face and he’s slow to admit to himself that he seriously doesn’t know what to do. How can he sooth Q’s pain, when the only thing Bond does to deal with it is drowning the damn feeling in a large quantity of alcohol and then sleep it off? Surely his Quartermaster has a different way of making it go away. At least, he hopes so.

"I’m not so sure now, though." The young man replies, forcing a glance towards him.

Q tried hiding; he tried burning; he tried forgetting. Nothing worked. His sentiments proved themselves to be more powerful and stark than he ever intended them to become. He didn’t even let them grow inside of him, because he ruthlessly destroyed them. Still, he starts thinking that maybe (just _maybe_ ) these feelings he has for Bond evolved into genuine sprouts of affection, so genuine that they wouldn’t stop haunting him.

"I’m sorry, Q." Is the only thing that Bond can come up with.

He’s not even sure what for, though, but he probably intends it to cover all the problems he created (deliberately or not).

"Yes… " He replies, absentmindedly. "No." Q immediately corrects himself, chancing a glance at the agent. "You usually don’t say sorry for something that you’re not responsible for."

"I think I’m more responsible than you give me credit for."

Q shoots him a glare, but he somehow ends up assessing Bond’s face.

“Are you actually trying to be a gentleman and take everything on yourself?" He asks, feeling the anger boiling just underneath his skin. "Why, James, I didn’t know your self-destructiveness was so colossal!"

"Q, you’re close to being hysterical."

"Well, excuse me for getting out of character once in a while!" The Quartermaster spits with venom, then stands up and goes into his bedroom.

He purposefully ignores the abandoned towel, because he is too angry right now to take care of the details. With a fury he doesn’t know he is capable of, he puts on fresh underwear, a pair of navy trousers and, finally, a carmine polo-neck sweater without patterns on it. All the while he swears under his breath, unaware that the agent has followed him and now he’s leaning against Q’s door frame. He should probably be flattered by the act of caring Bond displays. Instead, he is angrier.

"Q… "

"Don’t!" He interrupts, raising his index finger in the air, not turning to face him. "Whatever you’re trying to say… just don’t!" He starts for the living room, ignoring the fact that Bond’s obstructing half of the passage.

However, the agent stops him before he can pass through, smoothly sliding his arm around Q’s firm abdomen.

"You’re not trying to charm your way into my trousers again, are you?" He asks, pointedly looking straight in front of him.

"Last time I did that, it was out of necessity." He replies in a low voice that has Q shuddering uncontrollably.

"Then now you’re doing it out of sympathy?"

"No. Q, I’m not trying anything." Bond says, a bit vexed.

Q’s gaze falls on the arm that the agent still has draped over his abdomen. Almost instantly, he lets go, and Q marches into the other room, collecting the towel.

"James, you need to understand this." The young man starts, letting out a defeated sigh. His tone is calm again, though he still doesn’t face Bond. "I’m your Quartermaster and our relationship went back to being professional some time ago. That’s why, please… don’t try to start something that will only end badly." He’s trying to keep his tone even, but he’s not so sure it works. "I need to be whatever my job requires me to be and nothing more."

The agent studies Q’s back almost incredulously. He’s not even sure why he feels this overwhelming surge of anger spiraling through him.

He clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath, managing to calm himself a bit.

"That’s a poor excuse, Q, and you’re fully aware of it." He comments bitterly and catches the way his shoulders tense. "Still, if you’re so adamant about it, then you’re required to read the document on your table and get your arse into the car, for we’ll depart as soon as you know what we’re supposed to do to catch that bastard." Bond lets the anger flow with the words.

Q’s eyes flicker immediately at the dark brown envelope that’s been sitting on his glass table the entire time Bond has been in his flat. It takes two steps to approach it, and when he opens it and quickly skims the first page he lets out a long sigh.

"Why am I not surprised?" Q murmurs to himself, closing his eyes for a bit.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand here's the next chapter! ^^ fresh from revision!
> 
> I apologize once again for the long wait. I hope to make it up to you with this long chapter :)
> 
> P.S. Whatever other error you find in there is entirely mine! :)

_**There is nakedness there** _

* * *

 

 

Werewolves take on normal names, but do not have surnames. In terms of similarity, they’re closer to humankind than foxes. They don’t have any need of family names, because the smell does all the introductions should proximity with a strange werewolf be required.

Q isn’t in the least surprised that the surname space was left blank and only his mother’s name, Helena, was written in bold letters along with other minor information about her.

That was only the first page, though.

The envelope is fairly slim, but there are still five other pages full of her history (only what she let them know, Q is sure) and her past jobs. He doesn’t need to go into detail, but only skims through them, and the knowledge that Bond has already read these pages doesn’t sit well with Q.

He turns his head halfway, chancing a glance in the older man’s direction.

“Something else you’d like to add, _Quartermaster_ ?” There it is again, that hateful, unnecessary stress of his title. He actually starts to dread it, because it sends cold chills down his spine whenever Bond uses that tone. “Because I’m fairly certain that that’s superficial information I could dig up myself.”

Q gulps subtly and closes the envelope. Should he or should he not?

“We need to get to Exmouth.” He says quietly, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

“Of course we do.” Bond comments with a wry smile. “It’s not as if I’m going to hear the details from your mouth first, am I now?”

Q’s ready to fire his comeback about Bond’s earlier statement about being hysterical, but, like the gentleman he is, he pushes it down. It might provoke him an indigestion, but he’ll survive.

He moves to take his overcoat and scarf, pointedly ignoring the agent, because the tension never felt more oppressing and hostile than right now, and he doesn’t even _want_ to imagine the terrifying heights it will reach when he’ll be confined in a car with him for five hours. The shudder takes him by surprise and he swiftly glances over at his laptop and tablet, currently connected to their rechargers on the kitchen’s countertop.

He’s suddenly aware of the negative answer to his unspoken question. This time, his mother will have to step over her golden rule.

* * *

The silent, suffocating and excruciatingly infuriating sulking lasts for almost two hours, before Q finally can’t take it anymore.

He was well aware that he’d be put in the position of telling his life story (or close enough) to Bond, but he actually believed (somewhere after they fell apart) that they could go their separate ways without Q having to lay down his past and other personal (and _sensitive_ , don’t forget that) information about himself.

“Ask.” Q orders in a strained but vexed voice.

For a couple of seconds Bond’s silent, too silent. It actually looks like the agent didn’t hear Q, but the sudden dissipated tension tells him otherwise. Hesitation and the all-too familiar feeling of discomfort replace the sulking and Q’s _definitely_ not going to spend the remaining three hours breathing _them_.

Q lets out a long, exasperated sigh. It seems Bond’s set on not inquiring anything like a normal person would do. At least not yet, he supposes.

“I wanted to be an assassin when I was a kid.” He starts a bit unsure and uneasy. After all, this is the first time he told anyone about his childhood. “I always fantasised about pulling myself out from the most desperate situations, always tried to come up with different strategies to use when a certain problem arose. Still, I’ve never killed anyone in my head, though I know it’s the most important task when working as an assassin.”

“You were soft at heart.” Bond states calmly, but doesn’t look at Q.

“Probably.” He concedes, glancing over at the agent. “I still am, I suppose. My strategies, back then, were designed in such a way that there wasn’t any collateral damage.” There’s a pause. Bond waits patiently for him to continue. “I really wanted to become an assassin. Now that I think about it, I was mostly looking up to my mother. She was my idol. So fierce, yet so caring and solar.”

“That means your mother didn’t hide the fact that she was an assassin.” The agent intervenes, still keeping his eyes on the road.

The sun is slowly approaching the horizon and soon the dark will spread through Britain like an ancient and abstract plague.

They will have to spend the night in Exmouth, Bond is sure.

“No.” Q frowns, as if he just said something illogical. “You can’t quite hide what you do among your -- my kind. No matter how many showers you take or how much perfume you use to cover it, the smell of blood will still linger on you for a little more time, before it’ll be finally engulfed by your own scent. It didn’t take me long to put the pieces together. After all, I had, and still have, a knack for puzzles.”

There is a lingering pause Q intentionally allows, because he’s not sure what to continue with and where should he delve that won’t expose too much of himself. At this point, though, he’s not so sure he’ll manage to maintain half the mystery. He’d be more than grateful to just shut up and enjoy the (now) comfortable silence between them, but Bond seems intent on going down to the roots of Q’s very core (now that Q already took the first step and cracked open the door to his past), if he has to take a wild guess. Which is not exactly a wild guess.

Q knows how the agent operates and he never _ever_ goes into the field without concrete and detailed information, unless the mission requires him to do so. Since the opportunity to fill in blank spaces about his Quartermaster is at arm’s length, like hell is he going to let it pass.

“How would you describe them?” Bond asks after a stretched silence, his tone void of every emotion.

“Them?”

“Werewolves.”

Q looks at him for a good, long moment, trying to read the agent’s expression, but that’s harder than reading a Chinese pergamena.

At the same time, he has to decide how would he address his kind. How would it be appropriate to do it.

‘They’, seems too ugly a word to use, because he didn’t want to succumb to regarding his nature as a distasteful and horrific trait to possess; ‘we’, is equally odd and - _wrong_ , since he had never seen himself as part of the werewolves collectivity (more so than an average werewolf felt the need to work out to the collective good) so it is plainly wrong no matter how he looks at it; ‘I’, on the other hand, is far too personal.

He is prepared to give more sensitive information than what the envelope enclosed, but he is also careful not to just _spill_ everything out like a pot that’s been kept under pressure for far too long.

“A werewolf’s nature,” There. Better to be objective about it. “is hard to put into plain words, because they differ from one another as you humans do too. There are Alpha dynamics, but they’re more present within the single family nucleus. The height is not the only difference between a werewolf and a plain wolf and the basic conception of a pack is far gone, werewolves learning to be much more independent. As soon as one reaches the human legal age of taking a full-paid job, they move out and create their own family.”

“So you’re closer to being humans than… werewolves.” Bond says and Q nods.

“Though there are differences. You humans need a leader - or more. We don’t. There’s no such thing as an Alpha leader, because essentially we don’t constitute a pack, even though the old ones still believe in it. They still pretend we are a united community, when in fact there isn’t even the faintest trace of such a thing. We are independent creatures and we like it that way. Just try to force a werewolf to live in a pack larger than its own family and you’ll only end up in uproar.”

Distantly, Q recognizes the change in his approach to his nature. Since when did neutral became ‘we’? Well, what has been done, has been done. No point in rectifying it now. It is easier using ‘we’, anyway.

A small part of Q laughs mirthlessly, because it sounds like a big, tasteless joke.

Bond seems oblivious to the change and only gives a curt nod.

“What about foxes?”

Q scoffs.

“They’re your average dogs, but stripped of their renowned loyalty and stupidity. Also, they’re too conservative for my liking.” He grimaces. “How is Eve?”

Well, now that wasn’t a subtle way of changing the subject and they both know it, but Q isn’t in the mood to play with the words in a roundabout way.

“I suppose you visited her in the Med department before you broke into my flat.”

“Your door wouldn’t be functional at the moment, if I were to break into your flat.” Bond scoffs, a bitter comment for the way Q changed the subject. “But yes, I went to see her. She was already up and about when I came in.”

“And?” The Quartermaster asks, drumming his fingers on his knee impatiently.

“She’s in.”

“Good. We’ll need her.”

 

* * *

The house in front of which they stop is well hidden by all the nature surrounding it. It is almost engulfed in green ivy, though it still has to reach the centre of the front wall. The style of the architecture is hard to define, not that Bond has a vast knowledge of the subject. He would say that what he sees is a mixture of all the famous periods that have managed to become notable in England.

Q doesn’t offer any explanation or description and the agent doesn’t push the matter. Instead, he follows him inside where a warm glow of light, an open floor that intermingles old with new and a (strikingly) young brunette welcomes them. She is of Q’s stature, give or take a few inches, and her curly, dark long hair makes an interesting contrast with her snow-white face.

The relaxed aura that surrounds her sets off every single alarm in the agent, and he would have had already his Walther in his hands ready to shoot anything that moves, if she wasn’t Q’s mother and his Quartermaster wouldn’t be so at ease with the environment.

“Mother, this is James.” Q presents him. “James, this is my mother, Helena.”

Both of them reach out their hands, when Helena says, ‘’It’s a pleasure to meet you, 007,’’ and his every muscle goes taut and tense, and his instinct wants to kick in so _badly_ \- he clasps her hand either way in a desultory hold.

“Likewise,” but he is totally unconvinced. Well, people usually aren’t thrilled to see an agent, because normally that kind of rendezvous only meets one end: bloodshed.

“It seems M preceded us.” Q comments, putting his gadgets on the table. “Then I don’t need to explain our presence here.”

His tone is calm, calculated and professional and Bond feels as if they’re back in Q-Branch.

“I might require an explanation for _those_ things on my table, but I’ll charge you another time.” Helena says in an equally neutral tone, and takes a green bowl from a small table near an armchair. “Biscuits?” She asks Bond, extending the bowl towards him with a wide, warm smile.

Bond looks skeptical at the contents of the dish, using the pause to process the (rather) harsh and cold way these two people spoke to each other, as if they weren’t related in any way and this is the first time they have met to conduct a mission. There isn’t a defined tension in the room, per se. It can only be deduced by their tones and expressions, even though that would turn out to be a faulty deduction, if someone asked Bond his honest opinion.

“They’re not poisoned, James.” Q says from where he’s standing in front of his open laptop, purposefully ignoring his mother’s comment about his devices.

“No, thank you, Ma’am.”

“Does that mean I should’ve snuck some in with the ingredients?” Helena asks, her smile turning into a wide and amused grin, but before the agent can reply, a door is flung open and a screamed “Eya!” has Bond tensed again, ready to take his Walther out.

At the last moment, his eyes catch a flurry of something dark, before it disappears under the table. The seats are thrown aside hurriedly and a couple of seconds later he sees a toddler emerging from underneath, cheerfully attacking his Quartermaster’s leg and enveloping it in his limbs. The mop of dark, curly hair prevents Bond from seeing the kid’s face. Also, the fact that his head is twisted in the other direction, Q’s leg blocking the view, doesn’t help much.

Q grunts, visibly not pleased by the attack.

“You pedestrian monkey!” He hisses, but there’s no ire in his tone. “Leave my leg at once, or I’ll personally send you flying into space!” He commands sternly, not even looking down at the boy.

The kid disentangles himself and takes on as much of a rigid posture as a child his age can muster, his right arm shooting up in a military salute, and says, “Aye, aye Captain!”

“This isn’t a pirate ship, you chipmunk!”

“I’m not a chipmunk, I’m a soldier!” He responds, all serious voice and furrowed brow. “See, I have my arm up in the same way they show it in that his - histo - historician book!” Sasha stutters on the word.

“Soldiers don’t respond to their Commander with ‘ _Aye, Captain_ ‘ !” Q says, his eyes still glued to the laptop’s screen. “And it’s history.”

For a couple of seconds, the toddler seems to be at a loss for words. Another frown creases his forehead and Bond can almost feel how the wheels of his mind desperately search for a comeback, the same expression Bond saw on Q’s face a couple of times before.

“You’re not my Commander… you ugly pumpkin!”

“Why, that was weak, soldier.” Q comments and the grin is present in his words, even though his back is turned and not even Sasha can see his face.

Well, his mother isn’t so subtle as she immediately covers her mouth with a hand to refrain from bursting into laughter.

Q’s better at hiding it, and says in his usual toneless voice, “You need to revise your offensive vocabulary if you’re to survive this hostile and grim world,” but Sasha’s suddenly intake of a breath reveals that he has spotted the thing that he completely disregarded upon entering the living room.

His head turns slowly, eyes wide and mouth agape as he takes in the intruder.

The first move he makes is to crouch minimally in a defensive posture, his nostrils flaring. As the toddler reacts, the moment hangs tensely in the eerie silence of the room.

Bond can clearly see the little electric blue snakes that start dancing within his black eyes, his expression contorting halfway between an adorable grimace and an illogical anger, very close to being animalistic. For some reason, the agent is sure the next move will be a head-on attack.

To his surprise, another intake of breath from Sasha has all his tensed features suddenly relax, though the kid’s eyes remain wide. The slowly fading little snakes are still there, and his mouth doesn’t return from the comical almost-‘o’ shape it is currently in.

“You smell of Eya.” He deadpans, still looking at him.

“Good job, honey bear!” Helena intercedes, clapping her hands together once. “You managed to contain the werewolf within!”

It’s only then that Q turns to the rest of the room (and the people in it) and swiftly takes in the situation. Bond’s confusion is the strongest wave in the mix. Everything else is just a dull, familiar thrum.

“He’s learning how to control his shifting.” Q explains. “A new werewolf is susceptible to emotions. It’s usually the anger and the instinct of survival that makes one shift without realising. Sasha’s precocious, though. Normally, it takes six to eight months to master it, but it has been barely two months since his first shift.” A proud smile blooms on his features as his eyes linger on the boy and Bond inadvertently drinks it in. “So much for baby steps.”

“Eya, why does he smell like you?” He asks, approaching Q with questioning and confused eyes.

His older brother crouches, supporting his weight on one knee so he can be at the same level as the toddler.

“My name is Q, not Eya. Get your head around it once and for all!” He disregards his baby brother’s previous question.

“Q is ugly. I like Eya better.” Sasha says smiling, then he licks Q’s tip of the nose just because he can.

“You… “

“Not a single word.” His mother interrupts him, raising her index in the air. “He’s mini-you, remember?”

Q is defeated by her smug and proud smile that leaves him with no choice but to close his mouth and let the matter drop.

“Mummy, how can you get your head around a letter?”

 

* * *

“Why does he smell of Eya?” Sasha asks again after a few minutes of silence, dangling his feet in the air because the armchair is too high for him.

His mother had bribed him with biscuits shortly after his little scene, so that in the meantime she could discuss the mission with Q, but it seems he doesn’t want to let the subject drop so easily. The kid is too curious about the new person in the room and why he smells of his elder brother. It isn’t strong, meaning that the contact between the two has ceased or almost ceased, but it is there nonetheless. A faint lulling scent that constantly throws off the little werepup in him, because that’s something you do with your family, or someone who is very close to you (closer than just a mere friend) - you leave your scent on them.

Both his brother and his mother smell like home to him, but the stranger… He is a mix of danger and home and he’s not sure how he should act. There’s a part of him that wants to welcome the man. Another part wants him to be miles away. Sasha is too little to ignore, separate or even take sides, so he has decided to pursue his curiosity.

“Because he’s Eya’s special someone.” Helena answers with a warm smile.

“He’s not!” Q denies out flatly.

“Do I have a say in this matter?” Bond’s even tone disrupts his Quartermaster’s eye contact with his mother.

“No!” Both Helena and Q say at once, though with different tones; one exasperated, the other amused and chilled.

For a moment they stare intently at one another, then Q breaks it and goes back to his laptop, Helena at his side. The exchange of information continues as if it hasn’t ever been disrupted. Bond takes a step towards the dining table, after satisfying himself by checking out of the window for any suspicious movement outside; a habit that probably runs deeper than his natural instincts.

Sasha hops out of the armchair, placing himself in the agent’s way as soon as the older man started heading towards Q and Helena.

They exchange some glances, Bond finding that the kid isn’t in the least bit perturbed or afraid of him. There is more curiosity in his expression than anything else. It’s a bit unsettling, given the fact that he’s sure he is oozing dangerous double-oh hormones and the toddler’s keen sense of smell couldn’t have by-passed it so easily.

“You smell of guns.”

“I thought I smelt of,” a quick glance in Q’s direction, “Eya.”

He rolls the name in his mouth, the unfamiliar sound feeling odd and smooth, as if it could suddenly slip out of his mouth and disappear forever.

Nasty feeling, that.

“Hmm,” Sasha hums noncommittally. “That too, but I also smell edgy things on you.” He cocks his head to the side as if he’s trying a different angle so that he can take a closer look at who Bond really is. ‘’Fire, danger, bad things… “

The inspection (because yes, it is exactly that) is a bit unnerving, Sasha’s big, charcoal eyes, drilling holes in him. He feels exposed, exactly the same way he sometimes feels when Q fixes his steady gaze upon him.

“Are you a spy?” The little one asks him with a dead-serious expression.

“I don’t know, am I?”

Sasha looks at him with an unreadable expression as he takes a couple of steps toward the agent until he’s inches away from Bond’s legs. He lets his head fall back so he can look at him, but the older man crouches down instinctively to make eye contact more easily.

The proximity is stunning. He feels as if he’s looking at Q when he was a child, small and inexperienced, just starting his life of questions upon questions triggered by an endless curiosity. He sees it in Sasha’s big eyes too, the hunger to know everything that surrounds him so he can use it at its full capacity. It would have been almost overwhelming, if Bond  hadn’t been a trained agent.

Right now, though, that trait falls under the label of adorable in a new, odd way.

“How old are you?” Bond asks when he doesn’t receive a reply for his previous question, his expression a blank mask for prying eyes.

“I don’t divulge information about myself to every passing stranger.” Sasha declares and his arms twitch, as if he’s resisting the urge to cross them on his chest and probably pout.

So he’s aware that that kind of action would emphasise his young age and his obvious inexperience. He has learnt to mask it as best as he could. Clever boy.

“Tight-mouthed, then.” The agent says, almost thoughtfully. “Good.”

“Do you like Eya?” He asks, looking closely at Bond, searching his face for anything that might betray his response.

The agent watches the kid as he measures every inch of his features with a stunning intensity. The question bears serious meaning behind it.

“What is your smell telling you?” Bond asks instead.

Sasha stops his searching eyes, fixing his gaze upon the older man’s. He inhales subtly.

“You do.” He whispers.

“Is that right?” Bond’s mouth quirks in a small smirk.

Sasha responds with a wide grin and it feels like all the pieces fall in place, a new, odd connection forming between the two.

 

* * *

“So, which one of you two is actually saving our arses?” Helena asks, looking from Bond to Q and back again.

They all took a break at ten minutes to midnight, because it was a lot of information to take in at once. Bond needed a bit of time to assimilate it.

That’s why they were in front of the fireplace, Q and Helena taking each an armchair, while Bond was left to sit on the sofa with Sasha. The toddler didn’t cease his inspection (which, in reality was just a prolonged, intent stare) and was sitting on his knees, completely revolved towards the agent. Q should have taught him how to study someone without them noticing it, but James finds Sasha’s bold attitude endearing and somehow amusing.

This entire domestic scene is far too normal for the agent’s liking. It’s almost like an evening amongst one’s family. A bit of time in the company of the closest persons in one’s life.

It is distressing, since Bond had already given up on the hope of someday having a family. However, the atmosphere he finds himself in is almost reassuring. A warm blanket of calmness and protectiveness.

The question has taken them by surprise, so both of them look at each other, feeling at a bit of a loss for words.  

“He’s the one who pulls the trigger. I’m the one who designs them.” Q’s smug smile spreads across his face unconsciously.

If it’s pride for Bond or for himself, the agent can’t tell. He settles with assuming that it’s a combination of both.

“I see. So, you’re the one who cooks and he’s the one who gets dirty?”

“If you want to put it that way, yes.” Bond intercedes calmly, and there is a little smile that plays at the corners of his mouth. He, then, remembers that they are still strangers and to top it off, she’s his Quartermaster’s mother, so he adds almost as an after-thought, “Ma’am.”

“Although, generally speaking,” Q intervenes subtly. “it’s not a matter of who takes all the glory, so to speak. Each of us has a part… in it.”

“Ah, the essence of an organisation. Sounds distantly familiar.” She says, lost in thought.

There’s a long pause that follows, neither of them uttering a word. The silence is a comfortable one and Bond can’t help but revel in it, knowing it won’t last forever. He also happens to take what is offered to him without pondering on it or asking questions, because good things always vanish too fast (even when he takes his time to savour them).

The continuous movement at his left is what breaks the spell, Sasha swaying from one side to the other on his knees, worrying his lower lip between his white teeth. Bond looks at him and for a second they lock gazes, then the toddler jumps up from the sofa and dashes to one of the back doors.

“Where are you going, honey?” Helena asks lightly.

“Bathroom!” He answers desperately, opening the door and disappearing behind it.

His mother chuckles lightly, then takes the cups of tea and Bond’s empty glass of scotch from the small table and goes into the kitchen.

The silence falls again, but this time it’s just him and Q. He can see the restlessness in him, because he hasn’t stopped drumming his fingers on his right knee since his mother left the room. His Quartermaster is also pointedly not looking at him which adds to how uneasy the atmosphere has become.

Before Bond can say something, anything just to make Q look at him because right now the silence is unbearable and heavy with unspoken words, there’s a knock on the front door and both of them turn their heads towards it simultaneously.

“Is your mother expecting other guests?” He glances at Q, and there’s a flash of worry in his expression.

“Not that I’m aware of, no.”

The answer has Bond reaching for his Walther and moving swiftly to the door, Q in tow.

As soon as he gives a curt nod, meaning that he’s prepared, Q suddenly opens the door and a knife appears in his right hand out of nowhere (or most probably out of his sleeve) that threatens to cut through the stranger’s stomach if they as much as move half an inch forward. On the other side, Bond’s gun is pointed at their head, which makes it impossible for the intruder to even flinch under the present circumstances.

The moment is caught in a cobweb of palpable tension.

“Whoa, there!” Ash immediately raises his hands at his chest’s level, palms up. “I’m innocent! I swear I was a good boy this week!”

“Ash.” Q almost growls, his expression filling with anger.

“The one and only, mate!” The grin spreads across his features faster than a virus.

Q takes back his knife, resuming a more upright posture.

“Ash?” Bond asks, confused, while lowering his gun, but just a few inches.

The tension dissipates a great deal, though it is still present, looming ominously above their heads, ready to fall again.

“One of the idiots that abducted Eve and I.” Q supplies, not taking his eyes off the guy.

Ash’s smile does not falter when Bond connects the tip of his Walther to his temple, as if he was expecting the agent’s reaction.

“Now, now, El. I know Art won’t take your compliment so kindly. You know just how short-tempered he can be at times.” He chides, way too cheerfully for his own good.

Bond seems intent on rubbing off that hateful smile from his face, especially if he gets to use his gun to accomplish it.   

“So, one of those foxes I hadn’t had the pleasure to introduce my Walther to. Such a pity. Luckily for me you arrived just in time to make up for it.” Bond says in a low, rich voice that has Q shuddering uncontrollably again, though the words hold so much venom that they could kill an elephant.

“No, James. It’s pointless.” Q sighs and shakes his head in defeat, willing his mind to stop wandering off to inappropriate images involving an agent, a gun and an illegal gravelly voice. “His death, I mean. He’s just a pawn, but he has information, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.” A small pause. ”Right. How did you find this place?” He asks, a bit concerned.

“I trailed you?” Ash says, his brows reaching unbelievable heights on his forehead, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. “Your scent is so mixed with emotions that I almost lost you somewhere close to Exmouth, but there was a trait in it that hasn’t changed since our University days, dear mate.” He explains with a wide grin, that easily borders on madness.

Q growls like he has never growled before. He doesn’t even care if Bond will give him quizzical looks. This _failed experiment_ (as he used to call Ash back when he was in University) always managed to bring out the most feral traits of his werewolf.

“Q.” His mother’s clipped tone reaches his ears from somewhere behind him. “Manners.”

How long has she been standing there? Q wonders absentmindedly, because his anger has already started to boil his blood. He never heard her entering, and from the concentrated look on Bond, neither did he.

Ash is a bad presence there.

“Right.” Q says with the most ironic grin he ever mustered and offers, “Biscuits?”

 

* * *

“So, University days? Mate?” Bond asks, quirking one brow.

He’s not so sure if he wants to learn about that particular period in Q’s life or if… well, now -- who is he trying to fool? Of course he _wants_ to know about it. All of it in particular.

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Q says exasperated. ”Don’t make me remember my time in hell! I will seriously develop some form of trauma!”

“Ah, nothing new.” Ash intervenes coolly. “You were always a traumatised damsel back then.”

“You were most definitely hallucinating, otherwise I can’t explain your erroneous assumption.” He frowns indignantly.

“Oh, please. You were always lamenting about one thing or another.” Ash scoffs and Bond catches a glimpse of the unscrupulous assassin that he is. “People started to look at us like we were an old bloody married couple!” He bites out, disgruntled.

“That ‘one thing or another’ was actually your _stupid_ smell!”

If his mother hadn’t been present, he would have already started shouting, because Ash’s nature always called for extreme measures. Even when those measures were represented by increased decibels.

“If you had done something to conceal it or even decimate its strength, we wouldn’t have had to pass through all those dreadful situations!” He says between clenched teeth, the seething anger pouring out in a posh accent and a barely concealed murderous intent.

Well.

Bond is a bit taken aback by this stranger that looks and talks like his Quartermaster. Not even once has he seen him lose his composure and engage into a fight body and soul. Less body, more soul, in this case, even though he’s perfectly sure Q wouldn’t have backed down from translating his anger into physical contact. _Painful_ physical contact, that is.

“Now, now, boys.” Helena tries to calm the spirits. “This isn’t the time to argue over past actions, is it? There is a mission we need to sort out and start running. Besides, Mr Bond here might be put off by your melodramatics.” She points out, though her eyes fall on Q.

Bond wouldn’t have thought he would live long enough to see his Quartermaster cross his arms and _pout_ ; but there it is, in plain sight for everybody to see it and isn’t it the most endearing thing his expression could ever come up with?

The violent surge of _want_ that makes his body aching to close the distance, to finally touch him beyond strictly professional, to feel his warmth how it licks at his fingertips, to fluster that composed face and finally take his lips adoringly is unbearable.

He is suddenly aware of how easily he let himself stray from his state of equilibrium that he managed to keep while being in the same room as Q. He is also (very) aware of the fact that there are two werewolves and a fox sitting by the fireplace, their keen smell not so oblivious to signs of arousal.

Bond catches a curious glance from his Quartermaster, while the fox gives him a dirty look. Helena seems to ignore whatever is going on at the moment.

“I see our little damsel has found a peculiar toy to play with.” Ash says, grinning at Bond.

Q shoots him a glare (even if the fox isn’t looking in his direction) and speaks softly, though his voice has acquired a thunderous cadence to it, “Be warned, Ash. I will succumb to violence if I must, so choose your next words wisely.”

“Why does our living room stink of dead horse?” Sasha interrupts whatever Ash was going to say and everybody in the room turn their attention to the toddler that had emerged (finally!) from the bathroom.

Everybody, except Bond. He uses this opportunity to look at Q in a way that is likely to be considered more than friendly.

“Ah, that would be my breakfast.” Ash explains with an amused smile and Sasha’s eyes do something comical, as if zooming in on the new intruder.

"Your accent is funny.” The kid takes a few steps towards him, still sizing him up. “You sound like you speak up your nose.’’

"He’s lying. That’s his natural smell." Q shudders, a flood of memories taking him by surprise.

“Is he your friend?” Sasha asks innocently, looking at his big brother.

Q scoffs. As if he’ll ever admit to that.

“Over my dead body.” He declares, sultrily.

“Hey, now.” Ash protests. “You say you’re different than your kind, yet here you are, denying our friendship as if I’m the epitome of plague. As much as you proclaim to understand our side you give me plenty of reasons to think that isn’t true. What should one conclude from this?”

Q knows this is another way of teasing him, just more straightforward. He won’t fall for it, though. He has spent enough time with the fox to pinpoint his tells.

“Of course it’s not true when _you_ are involved. It is an automatic response. I hate when people tease me, and you know it very well.” He glares at his smirking face, but then mutters with venom, “You managed to make yourself an annoyingly special case in my mind. There.”  

“Aw, isn’t that the most sweetest confession I’ve heard in a while?” Ash coos sarcastically.

Q goes to extreme extents to prevent himself from displaying an epic roll of his eyes, so instead he looks elsewhere.

This is when he catches Bond’s intent gaze on him and the moment feels as if it has been frozen in time.

Neither of them breaks the contact, Q finding an old reassurance in it. He should look away, but the things he sees there, the unspoken words, lock him in place more tightly than any other restraint. There is nakedness there. Piercing blue eyes unveiled of their customary protection. They speak volumes of what his mouth could ( _would_ ) never admit, because once the words would leave his mouth, they will burn their host from inside out in their wake, destroying even the last remnants of protection he has built. Or at least that would be the consequence for Bond.

So why is he able to read so much into his eyes? Why does he let Q see ? He doesn’t understand what is happening between them right now.

“Q.” His mother’s voice filters through the endless questions and thoughts and he finally, although grudgingly, focuses his attention on her.

“I’m all ears.” He says by way of reassuring her that he’s present there not only physically.

“Brains too, if you please.” Ash comments, but Q doesn’t even spare him a glance.

His mother’s gaze is a puzzle for whoever looks at her, but he recognizes the hardness and seriousness that only he could catch the glimpse of.

“Ash, could you kindly repeat what you have just said?” Helena says in a neutral way.

He grins.

“The Boss of my Boss wants him alive. We are to retrieve and return him to our organization as soon as we catch him.”

“That’s out of the question.” Q blatantly affirms before Bond could muster as much as a sound.

He had already seen the twitch of his agent’s jaw, prepared to oppose Ash’s order.

“I don’t think you can have a say in this.” He arches one brow, Ash’s all-too familiar arrogance challenging Q.

“Oh, but we do have a say in this _sodding mess_ he has created.” Q’s calm demeanor and smirk are such a deceitful thing, that Bond has to suppress the smile that plays at the corners of his mouth, even though his imposing tone is a major turn on. “I would have let the issue slip by, if he wouldn’t have gone and stuck his nose in foxes-unrelated matters. Before you can take him away he will have to respond to _my_ Boss.”

“I highly doubt my higher-ups will be _delighted_ to have him in human’s hands beforehand.” Ash frowns, as if that alone explains a tone of why humans should keep their noses out of it.

“Well then, I hope you have trained your _agent_ well in sustaining an interrogation. I know for a fact that theirs,” A quick glance towards Bond. ‘’Are harsher and more efficient. You can’t even imagine how _creative_ they can get.”

The grin that settles on his features perfectly demonstrates the degree of ruthlessness MI6’s Quartermaster can reach if necessary.

Well, Q wouldn’t have put it past himself if he were to leave the mess in the hands of these foxes. Besides, he works in a human organization, thus he must abide by its rules no matter what.


	5. Chapter 5

_**First level cracked.** _ _**Six more to go.** _

* * *

 

 

They have been putting the pieces of information together until four in the morning. Sasha is long gone, taking up half of the sofa. Sometimes he twitches, as if he’s dodging something on pure instinct, but it probably has more to do with running than anything. Other times, Bond sees a small quirk of lips which is gone in the next second, seemingly an involuntary reflex of his mouth that wasn’t commanded by his brain.

Helena shares a vague physical description of their targets, because it has been more than ten years since she had last seen them. Nevertheless, the only element they can be sure about is the colour of their hair which cannot be hidden no matter what hair products they use. Eryth seems to be a ginger-haired, while his friend is snow-white. Well, now. Isn’t that an interesting combination?

Ash adds more accurate details about their fighting styles, Q nodding absentmindedly. His eyes are fixed on the crackling fire, apparently lost in thought.

“You said they are named after their fur colour.” Bond suddenly speaks up, locking his gaze on Q, just as his head shoots up caught by surprise.

“Yes, we are --” Ash begins, but catches on the fact that the agent’s comment is directed _only_  at Q.

The silence crowds the room. Their eyes linger on each other, apparently oblivious of the other two people sharing their space.

Q finds himself looking at James more than he does throughout a normal working day when he’s not on a mission. He should feel uneasy, but there’s nothing short of a strange calm licking at his comfort zone, almost _cuddling_ him. What radiates from James is complete openness.

He has seen more of what must be the real James Bond since they arrived at his mother, than in all of the months he had known him (short period of time in an intimate relationship with the man in question included).

“Yes.” He breathes, unable to break the eye contact. “Ash comes from Ashen, as you can see from his grey lock of hair,” He points to him, and Ash grins when Bond spares him a glance. “Sage has a grey-green colour when he shifts. Art is short for Atrous, which means jet-black, and Char comes from Chartreuse, meaning yellow-green. However, the colour of their hair in human form isn’t the best lead if you want to determine the shade of their fur. Both Sage and Art have dark hair, for example, and Ash has just that grey lock of hair.”

Bond doesn’t nod his assent. He is grateful just to look at his Quartermaster.

“My, my, now I feel exposed,” Ash comments, the smug grin leaking into his words.

Q knows him well enough to not bother with his affirmation. The Sun will have to burn for another two billion years before Ash can even conceive the idea of feeling exposed. They all ignore him since it’s the most undemanding way right now. Also, for Q and Helena it’s the only useful thing they mastered throughout all those years of forced contact with foxes.

He holds Bond’s gaze more easily now. It’s probably  the late hour (or early, depending on how one wants to see it) or the fact that he has consumed tremendous amounts of tea.

Q is sure that this trip, which had professionally purposes all the way through, has turned out to be more insightful than either of them bargained for. Nothing was forced, though. Not a single piece of information about Q (or werewolves, since it implicitly involves them). So he had nothing he could hold against the agent. That is, _if_  he was in the mood to do so (which he wasn’t, just to be clear).

As verbal as the information regarding his past and true nature was, it didn’t escape Q’s attention that Bond did a bit of unraveling too, on his side. By the end of their _sojourn_ , Q had inadvertently named the agent’s unusual openness his “silent confessions”. He realised it when he was the least prepared for it, because sudden revelations were something akin to long, lost species to him. He knew damn well what that meant.

He had even tried to convince himself that it had been something else. Perhaps the quietness of the place, or the change in scenery. Maybe it’s been the strange calming effect Sasha has on people after they spend a certain amount of time in his company.

Or probably deep down, in such a remote place that Bond isn’t even aware of its existence, he actually still holds a torch for something that can resemble a family as much as possible.

Everything he came up with is a sound excuse for the odd change of character, but Q’s clever enough to piece things together and squeeze out a conclusion that sets ablaze another set of emotions.

His life has officially entered the last stage of becoming a laughably image of a circus, because he is damn sure that this time he won’t be able to halt the on-coming wave.

It’s just a matter of time.

* * *

 

The road back to London is pleasantly wrapped up in comfortable silence. It’s refreshing for Q, since he has spent these past few months in a constant rollercoaster of feelings muddled up with logic, sometimes fighting with each other to have the whole ‘’stage’’ for themselves and putting him into desperate situations (but none beyond reparation).

This was definitely a breath of fresh air.

Almost absentmindedly, he becomes aware of the stealthy glances the agent throws in his direction. Q lets them slip by at first, needing to divide his attention between sending a report to M on his open laptop, the programmes he’s running in the background, contacting Eve and checking that everything is in place and ready to run smoothly and finally getting information about the status of his department. So far, it seems Q-Branch hadn’t had another bordering-on-full-scale crisis, but Q doesn’t let himself  bathe into relief just yet.

Mostly because Bond’s (so-called) furtive glances aren’t surreptitious _at all_.

“Something you’d like to ask?” Q says sternly.

“No.”

“Something to add?”

“No.”

“Affirm?”

“No.”

“Something you’d better keep to yourself?” Q tries again.

There’s a pause, then, “Yes.” and Q can’t suppress the smile that stretches the corners of his mouth in both directions.

Somehow, though, the atmosphere has changed from companionable silence to “there’s something that’s bound to come his way but the owner of that something is hesitant about it” and Q doesn’t like the prickling feeling of that. He’s not going to continue to push it, though. Chances are he’ll only manage to get out mono syllables and that will just build up his annoyance. He doesn’t want to fight this early in the morning, even though he knows fully well he won’t be able to even _scratch_ the surface of a _fight_ with Bond.

Sometimes, he thinks the man is so past the stage of heated arguments over stupid matters that only makes Q feel as if he’s actually a bloody _teenager_ with hormones so high on the scale of bad mood that he’s just itching for a fight. It’s the easiest thing he can get in a matter of minutes and can play the role of an outlet (if or when blowjobs are out of the question).

He would strongly deny it, if somebody were to voice it out loud, but sometimes (just _sometimes_ , when Q has to interact with the agent and he’s in the shittiest of moods James Bond can get)  he feels just like that.

He shifts in his seat, the belt suddenly burning its shape across his chest, because (maybe) he has half an idea of what should be roaming inside his agent’s mind right now. It’s not like these past few hours they have sat down and only worked on the plan. Oh, no. There was _so much more_ involved than that and Q refuses to ponder on it at all.

“How did it feel, when you first shifted?” Bond suddenly asks and Q gives him a surprised look before he can stop himself.

“Why do you ask?” He narrows his eyes, turning suspicious.

Bond shrugs. “Curious.”

Q quirks one, questionable brow, but the agent either ignores it or he’s pretending he doesn’t see it. In any case, he doesn’t meet Q’s eyes.

“Didn’t you have your fair share of information about werewolves and -- me?” The last word comes out almost whispered, as if there is a high probability that he could have spilled out the most secret of his secrets.

“You could say that.”

“Do I detect greediness there?”

“You could say that, too.” He smirks.

“Why, 007,” and he can’t help the bitterness that worms its way into that last word. “I didn’t know you were so interested in this weird, new species that fell upon your conscience over the night, so to speak.”

“Q, I want just a simple answer,” Bond says in a low voice, which Q can’t label. Is it bordering on irritation, annoyance or is it trying to be pacifying? “Not your bitter defenses.”

“Why bother?“ He continues, watching the expanse of black and white and the glow of orange that steadily grows bolder in the distance. “Why do you want to delve into the matter more than you already have, willingly or not? After all, it’s not like you’re able to acknowledge me.”

“Q, don’t twist my words. I said I wasn’t prepared to acknowledge your _werewolf_ side, which is an entirely different thing.”

“Not acknowledging one of my side is the same as not accepting the existence of my left part of the body!”

“Look,“ Bond takes a deep breath, as if calming himself, which is a bit unlike him. “You need to give me more time here. I lived all my life not knowing about this, so you can’t expect me to suddenly be at ease with it.”

Q scoffs.

“Q.” Bond’s tone soothes. “I’m not denying your werewolf’s existence, just --”

“Yes, I know, I know, you’re just trying to come to terms with it.” He sighs. “Not my fault you’re so old. Your brain cells are slowly but surely stepping to the other side.”

“Now I’m offended.”

“Of course you are. That was the whole point of it.”

“You sly bastard.” Bond mutters.

Q grins widely at his laptop screen.

* * *

 

They arrive in London at ten in the morning but the traffic is toying  with every driver’s nerves. Bond’s specifically.

The programmes Q had running during their five hour trip back to the city had a specific algorithm half based on a digital portrait Q finally managed to make, flawed and hardly accurate, and the other half on bits of supplementary information. He was mostly confident in his personal custom-made software programme he had developed half a year ago, because it latched onto MI6’s servers and snuck undetected into London’s veins, filtering every piece of information in the search for whatever Q needed.

He is very proud of it, since once started, it never stops until it finds what Q told it to, but until now he hasn’t typed in any half-arsed information about what he was looking for, so of course he is a little nervous that the programme won’t find anything relevant.

(He hopes the (horrible) digital portrait will help a bit, though.)

That’s why he let it sniff around all London’s servers, the starting point being MI6.

Being stuck in the traffic isn’t something Q is accustomed to, since he much prefers the Tube _outside rush hours_. He would have thought that Bond is used to it by now, because between the two of them he’s the one that has more contact with the _common mortals_ , not Q, but it seems he jumped to narrow-minded conclusions .

He lets his head fall back and stretches his legs as best as he can, given the limited space of the passenger’s front seat. The laptop sits open on his lap, every window minimized.

He spares a look at the traffic and the ever-gray sky and concludes that not even the most seasoned Londoner would manage to tolerate the rush hour. It’s an impossible thing to get used to.

“Bloody tourist season.” Q hears Bond mutter, and when he turns his gaze towards him, he sees how he clenches and unclenches his hands on the wheel.

He feels sympathetic for the older man’s coping mechanism when faced with a nerve-probing situation of such magnitude. Q is sure that he’d much prefer to be going into a suicide mission rather than putting up with London’s rush hour, thank you very much.

He opens his mouth to say something when a low, continuous pinging pulls his complete attention back to the laptop.

It’s his programme; it has found something and the sound it emits can be more accurately described as a half-hearted siren alert than a continuous pinging.

Q pulls up the window and starts typing furiously, the rush of adrenaline coaxing his blood into a mad rally of oxygen and other nutrients, all the while unaware of the wide grin that’s spreading across his face like an infectious virus.

“Something good happening on your laptop?” Bond asks bitterly.

Q’s too far immersed in what he’s doing to notice the bitterness, though his ears deliver the words to his brain.

“More than good! Brilliant!” He says, not bothering to look at Bond. “I had a programme of mine run loose through London’s servers, starting with ours. It’s true it took a bit over five hours to find something of relative importance to us, but finally. Finally!”

There’s a pause, Q’s attention focused completely on the screen. There’s a second sound, but this time it’s different from the previous one.

Bond spares him a few erratic glances, though he isn’t able to say anything, since they have _finally_  started moving and he’s concentrating on finding the shortest way to arrive at their work without ‘clashing’ into another line of traffic. He settles for a route which forces him to take a detour (but it’s not like Q has the necessary presence of mind to be aware of it) and slowly but steadily, they approach MI6’s building.

“I was a bit worried it might come back empty-handed,” Q continues after a couple of minutes, oblivious to anything happening around him, except a vague idea of Bond’s presence. “But now I know better than to mistrust my own creations. It’s not like I bought the software and started working on it from there. No. This one is made entirely by me, from scratch. So of course it has to be so brilliant that it can still bring back useful information even with half-arsed commands. After all, I’m nothing if not brilliant in its pure state so it’s only natural that I bleed bits of that brilliance into my own gadgets.” He takes a deep breath, not even realizing he just complimented himself in a rather bold and endearing (for Bond, of course) way.

“Like my Walther.” The agent says before he can catch himself.

Q’s no-filter rambling seems to be contagious.

“Exactly! That’s one of my dearest inventions since my Anti-fox Scent Purifier, back when I was forced to spend my days with that cavefox!”

For a full second the grin falters and his hands stop mid-air above the keys, giving space to a full-body shudder. It takes him half a second to separate himself from that memory and the grin makes its way onto his face again, the furious typing resuming as if it hadn’t ever stopped.

“It hiccups when it pinpoints a different firewall than what you mostly find in London.” Q shares and the satisfaction bleeds into his sentence.

“It what?” Bond asks befuddled, turning his head to look at him.

His expression is so focused because he wants to think about anything else but the bloody traffic that is trying his patience archly (since it seems that he’s not the only one that thought about using this route, _bloody hell_ ). So of course, right now Q seems like an oasis for his fried nerves. He is actually ready to welcome any technological blabbering his Quartermaster has to offer (in addition to the one just shared a couple of minutes ago).

Q’s grin widens considerably and for a moment Bond is afraid that if he stretches the corners of his mouth any further it will turn into a real Cheshire Cat grin. He knows that human skin is flexible, but there are limits to how far one’s smile can extend.

“I know you heard the second sound my laptop made. That’s what I came to define as a hiccup or, less hilarious, a stutter. That only happens if the programme encounters a firewall that looks like a normal one, but beneath there are multiple elements added to it to enforce it’s power. My programme has already identified the type so it has ‘armed’ itself with the appropriate weapons to attack and infiltrate, but it backfired brilliantly!”

Somehow, Bond is beginning to think that his Quartermaster makes an obscene abuse of the word ‘brilliant’ when he’s engrossed in his laptop and has to talk. Either that or it’s actually his secret favourite word and his brain doesn’t have enough spare time and energy to search for a synonym.

Probably the ideal explanation for it is the absence of a tea mug within arm’s reach. His brain translates it by frequently using an adjective, in this case. Probably.

“Meaning?” Bond prompts him, after the silence stretches on longer than the last one.

“Someone doesn’t want curious noses sniffing around in their server.” Q says, his grin breaking into a toothy one.

Bond studies his face for a determinate amount of time, since he has to return his gaze on the road; the chain of cars moves forward a couple of miles but then comes to a halt again.

“Hmm, but that doesn’t narrow down the list of possible suspects.” Bond comments after a while. “I mean, you’re not the only one who’s clever enough to set up defenses against virtual viruses.”

Q huffs out a short laugh, and says in a quiet voice, “You would be surprised how many errors one can make once one tastes the power. One becomes complacent and lazy quickly enough.”

“Speaking from your personal experience?” Bond inquires not so subtly; curiosity having bested him.

“Mm, more or less.” He grins and leaves it there.

The suspense hangs in the air as if it’s the only life-saver around. There isn’t a lingering feeling that says there is precious information purposefully hidden from Bond. Just an uncomfortable silence.

“This one has a different type of defense than your usual ones.” Q starts speaking after a while, his tone calm and soothing, grin firmly in place. “It’s unique. I only ever encountered it once when I was --” He stops abruptly and shakes his head minutely. “Only once I had the chance to work on it. It gave me headaches and countless sleepless nights, but in the end I managed to crack it. It took me over two months with the latest technology available at that time, nonetheless. I was 21 then and still stuck with that fox.”

Bond can almost feel Q rolling his eyes. It makes him smile.

“Why was it so hard to break?”

The young man’s grin widens again. He’s having fun for no reason apparently, but the agent knows better. He knows his Quartermaster is beyond happy right now; he is _thrilled_.

“It was made of five levels of phantom mazes plus three decoys. Working with this type of defense is very hard, it feels as if you’re in a minefield, but they don’t explode, they act as a kind of portal. If you don’t watch your step you’ll be sent to other servers in no time. I think I have virtually traveled the world and seen all that was there to see in those two months.”

He snorts, shaking his head. Bond doesn’t say anything, his eyes trained on the road, though his attention lingers with Q.

“It’s a devious one, really tricky and it took me a very long time to catch up on it. The three decoys were really tough to crack, since they alternately attacked and defended. I modified seven types of programmes to counter-attack them. They destroyed all seven of them. It was as if I was playing aggressive chess with only two pawns as my opponent’s army, but in the end I somehow managed to crack it up. Even now I think it was by sheer luck that I did it.”

Q shakes his head again, amused. It seems that he is still high on the adrenaline that supplies his grin. This euphoria makes him repeat things, like words or body movements, which is funny and endearing on a whole new level for the agent.

Why is it that he discovers so many new and wonderful things about him now that they’re supposed to be just co-workers?

“That was a very complex firewall from what you say.” Bond says.

“Yes, it was.” Q affirms, his typing uninterrupted. “You won’t find this type here.”

“What do you mean?”

For the first time since his programme’s alert, Q turns his head and looks Bond straight on, never stripping himself of the grin.

“It’s a fox special-made firewall. I’m itching to add that it reeks of cavefoxes, but that’s impossible in a virtual world.”

Bond’s eyes widen minutely in surprise.

“You found the second in command.”

“That, I did.” Q replies smugly, sparing a glance at the cars in front of him.

“Where is he hiding?” He asks, tapping on the wheel.

Q has a feeling that if he tells him a location right now, M can forget his face-to-face report about information gathering and start looking forward to inhuman casualties in one of London’s neighbourhoods report.

“That, I don’t know.”

The Quartermaster turns his head at the same as the agent does, their gazes locking on each other immediately.

“Yet.” Q adds and with that grin never faltering, Bond has the vivid impression that Q is playing with him.

“Why is that?” He asks coolly, because really, it’s pointless being angry with his Quartermaster in this state.

“Because Char’s firewall is an improved one. It’s made of seven levels of phantom mazes plus two decoys.” Q explains. Then adds, “I only hope the last decoy won’t be Lucifer himself. I might not survive a fight with him.” and chuckles softly to the laptop.

“What do you mean?” Bond asks confused.

“Do the math, James. Seven plus two. Nine. The nine levels of Dante’s Inferno?”

“Are you sure it’s about that?”

“If images of pagan deities and each level entitled ‘circle’ are anything to go by, then yes, I’m pretty sure it’s about Dante’s Inferno.”

Bond says nothing in response and Q doesn’t press either. The traffic is finally ebbing away and the agent can actually drive.

“I hope it won’t take over two months to crack this firewall.” James mutters absentmindedly and Q laughs.

“That was almost a decade ago, James. I’m confident that technology has improved considerably since then.” His tone is mocking around the edges, but the agent doesn’t seem to mind.

He parks the car in MI6’s underground parking lot. Q takes a moment to stretch his limbs, the sound of several joints cracking echoing off the walls. He takes his laptop and tablet and starts for the lift with Bond at his side.

“Ouch. Why does my face hurt?” He winces when he does some experimental movement with his jaw, the muscles of his cheeks furiously protesting.

“You grinned like a mad genius for about fifteen minutes.” Bond informs him with an amused smirk.

They enter the lift and Bond presses the button for the third floor. Q Branch.

“Oh.” He says befuddled. “Don’t tell anyone. I don’t fancy a visit to Psych.”

Bond laughs, actually laughs, wholeheartedly.

* * *

 

Q locks himself in his office, ordering everybody to refrain from disturbing him if they still want to be granted another day in Q-Branch, because he has to work on a new prototype for the double-ohs missions (obviously a lie, since he doesn’t want their mole to start suspecting something).

Reaching his big, grey desk in front of the window-wall, he takes out his other tablet from one of his desk’s secret compartment and positions each of them at his laptop’s sides. Then, he smoothly separates his keyboard from the screen, resulting in three tablets on display in front of him.

He takes a seat in his comfortable chair with the keyboard in his lap, typing in a row of commands. Soon enough, three blue squares peppered with yellow buildings of about sixty inches take shape on his desk. Q has always worked better in 3D.

The young man takes a moment to study them, then he discards his keyboard on the far side of his desk and stands up, rounding the piece of furniture, his eyes trained on the three figures. They seem identical, but Q knows better than to fall into the same trap again.

He follows a certain pattern he learned about years ago, since foxes are nothing if not creative bastards in the wrong way. After two rounds of circling his desk, he picks the building in the middle, having the most erratic order of all of them. Q, however, has already identified it.

_This will be so much fun_ , he thinks absentmindedly as he starts taking out the yellow squares with caution and extreme patience, using his hands. He doesn’t destroy them, since that action will send an alarm on the other side and that’ll be very counterproductive.

Instead, he builds an outside wall, entirely made of yellow squares, that surrounds the blue building, because working with this type of defense you need to be a sly bastard of your own. Q might admit (if he has enough liquor in his blood to make his brain dizzy and his thoughts sluggish) that spending so much time with a fox had its advantages. The slyness has rubbed off on him, it seems.

In fifteen minutes he builds a surrounding wall half the building’s height and as soon as he places the last square, the inner form collapses in on itself.

First level cracked. Six more to go.

**\---**

“How is our mad genius doing?” Moneypenny says cheerfully, almost three hours later.

Q is too concentrated on his yellow bricks to turn and politely greet his colleague.

“Damn. I told 007 not to tell a living soul about it.” He says instead, eyes trained on the strange figure.

Eve laughs.

“Tell what? I didn’t even see him today.” She chides lightly, approaching Q. “Are you, perhaps, afraid that you’ll receive order to pay a visit to our lovely Psych department?”

Q’s shoulders tense visibly and she laughs again.

“Your worry is baseless, dear Q. Everybody knows how much of a mad genius our darling Quartermaster is. That’s why you are so loved and carefully protected. Well, we’re still working on the ‘carefully’ part.” She adds after a moment, her expression becoming somber, but soon enough her smile is back on and says in drawl, “After all, MI6 wouldn’t want to lose its precious Quartermaster.”

With a swift movement of his left hand, Gollum’s _My preciousss_ floods the room, which throws Eve into a fit of laughter.

“How are you feeling?” Q asks quietly after a couple of minutes.

“Like I could easily beat the shit out of some half human, half fox guys.” She sees his amused grin in the window’s reflection.

“Manners, Miss Moneypenny.”

“ _I’m_ the mother hen, Q.”

“Then who has the privilege to fuss over your well-being?”

“Hmm, that would be 006. He has proclaimed himself my boyfriend or something. I didn’t know they taught double-ohs to live in a fantasy.”

“Oh, this is new.” Q says neutrally. “I feel a bit disappointed that the place is already taken. Anyway, I suppose he’s serious.”

“Serious?” Eve shoots him a quirked eyebrow. “Since when have our agents stumbled upon that word? Did you release some strange gas on their recreative floor?”

This time it’s Q’s turn to laugh.

“As tempting as that might be, I’m afraid the answer is no.” His gaze locks with hers through his reflexion in the window. “I’m just saying that this is the first time I’ve heard about it. You know how much pride he takes in his boisterous self and if he hasn’t broadcast it to the world just yet then there is a possibility he’s actually serious about you.”

Eve stares at him for a full minute and Q feels her confusion and other conflicting emotions swimming and mixing together. Then, they are gone just like that and her light mask is back in full force. Well, technically she’s an agent too, so why would that be so strange? They’re trained to hide their emotions so well, some of them are unaware when they manifest and also numb at their force. Bond, for example.

“How is the cracking proceeding?”

Q smirks. _Very smooth, Eve._

“I’ve reached the seventh level and am halfway through breaking it. I predict that the two decoys will be something close to little bitches so it’ll take me another two hours, just to be on the safe side.”

“Good. M expects you and Bond in his office when you finish.” She says all professional and smug while approaching the door. “Oh, and Q?”

“Hmm?” He asks absentmindedly.

“Manners.”

She disappears before Q can meet her gaze, half-turning towards his office’s door. She smiles when she hears him laugh again.

* * *

 

When Q enters M’s office, Bond and Eve are already there. He can’t quite contain his proud smirk at breaking the firewall in a few minutes over an hour. He was close to failing twice, but he swiftly managed to avoid being detected by Char.

“Somebody had a wonderful day today.” Eve says lightly, returning Q’s smirk when their gaze lock.

“M.” He greets his Boss with a slight nod, to which M responds in kind, adding, “Q.”

He doesn’t wait for permission, he just places his personal tablet on the desk and with a few movements of his hand, London’s streets map spreads in mid-air on M’s whole piece of furniture. At first it’s just a satellite image, but Q places his index finger on the north-east part of London and makes a circle; he brings his fingers together in the middle of it, then spreads them. In a moment, the whole mid-air map reveals a neighbourhood and a red blotch at Q’s right.

Bond is just a step behind him, but can’t help but notice the way Q’s long, slim fingers work with seamless precision and how the muscles of his back shift under his carmine polo-neck jumper whenever he moves his arms. Not to speak about his concentrated expression (if a bit off-balanced by his grin). Well, if Q in his working mode with strands of mad geniusness at the edges isn’t a major turn on, Bond doesn’t know what is.

“This is how Char’s location looked like when I managed to break the first level.” He points at his right.

“Half of a neighbourhood.” Eve says, sceptically.

“Yes.” Q concedes and then proceeds with changing the map. “He is clever enough to not secure just his building but almost an entire neighbourhood. If anything, he did a good thing for the people who live there, protecting their internet connection.” His grin widens and M’s eyebrow shoots up in a questioning look (which Q either ignores or doesn’t see).   

“He didn’t make a firewall that was easy to break. Of course he didn’t, that would have been an insult to my brilliant self.” He adds, unaware that his boss is starting to have some suspicions. Bond just smirks at his full working-mode Quartermaster’s besides-the-subject sentence. “It was actually harder than the last and only one of this type I have encountered almost a decade ago, but at long last --”

He lets the sentence trail off as he shows another map of the same area, but only a building is painted in red.

“My favourite part of this firewall is that it leads you exactly to the focal point, because it has to leave traces, all heavily-modified firewalls do, only these ones are stronger and easier to trace.” He spreads his palm above the red dot and brings up the building in 3D form.

“Top floor.” Bond voices out, his eyes on the red line almost at the top of the block.

“Yes.” He turns slightly and this time smirks at the agent. “And before anyone asks, I have already checked the flat for any forms of life and movement and it seems that someone bestowed a smile in my direction, since there are two living forms in there that are _not_ entirely human. Both a fox’s and a werewolf’s body temperature is notably higher by a couple of degrees than a human’s.”

“That means that both our suspects are in one place?” Mallory inquires with a look that says he’s not buying it one bit.

He’s not wrong in assuming that it’s a fluke, but he forgets that this time they have to deal with something more than human, but less than an animal. The rules by which this situation goes are bent and stretched at impossible and odd angles, so it leaves Q with no choice but to take the matter in his hands and deal with it as best as he knows.

“Yes. It sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? Trust me, I had this feeling many times when I worked with them, and this situation is not even close to a miracle. Mind you,  it’s as good as you can get given the situation.”

“Good. Works for me.” Bond says as if to conclude the conversation.

“In for a penny, 007?” Q gives him a mischievous smile.

James returns it and says, “You bet.”


	6. Chapter 6

_**This is England if it escaped your attention** _

* * *

 

 

It’s late in the afternoon when Bond and Q arrive at the appointed location, since they had to go through a couple more details before M gave them green light. Q didn’t have MI6 issued training for field work, and even though Mallory was a bit reluctant in exposing their Quartermaster again, he was also aware (as was everybody who took part in the operation) that he was the most adept person to handle this type of situation. Q also stopped at his office to change his clothes, since an encounter between the two kinds rarely ended up with either of them going home unscarred.

Q’s options for easily shrugged off clothing were a pair of jogging trainers, a buttoned up t-shirt and a pair of trainers that could be toed off effortlessly. He looked more like he was preparing for a jog through a park than meet a possible fight-or-die situation, but he felt comfortable in them. Besides, he won’t be displeased when he’ll probably have to tear them off.

They had to change the car, though, since Alec’s kindness had reached its limits when he saw how dirty his midnight-blue darling was. Bond’s only explanation was a shrug and a muttered, “What did you expect? It was the outskirts of Exmouth, not sodding Manchester”. The curses and threats (to not even so much as breathe near the car if any of them wanted to still have certain parts of their body intact) that followed left them with no choice but to take Bond’s Aston Martin for a drive.

He grumbled half the way to their destination.

They stop three blocks away as a precaution. (For whom? The car or theirs, well that is a mystery.)

“I have a feeling I’m going to get wet tonight.” Q remarks, looking out of his window at the heavily-clouded sky.

The agent grunts in response, fixing his gaze upon the building their targets live in.

“Q checking in.” He says into his earpiece. “We stopped three blocks away in the southern part of the street.” He reports, feeling slightly odd being the one that does it and not the one that receives it.

“ _HQ received. We see and hear you perfectly. 007?_ ”  Eve says in a clipped tone.

“Ready for combat.”

“Actually that’s plan B.” Q looks at him. “Plan A is to talk.”

“They had the audacity to screw with us. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just drop a bomb on them and be done with it.” Bond says calmly, keeping the eye contact with his Quartermaster.

If there is one thing 007 can’t stand, it is when someone decides they have a right to play with MI6. The organization has come to be more of a home to him than any of the flats he has ever lived in. Of course he’ll take any threat directed to MI6 _very personally_.

“ _Because you’re in England, 007._ ” M intercedes, a phantom sigh at the end of his sentence, and Q smirks.

“Also, you will probably get to march in with your Walther pointed at their heads. That must count for something.” The young man offers.

Bond looks at him, sceptically.

“It’s been something close to half a century since the last time I was bribed with sweets.”

“ _Anytime your Royal Highnesses see fit, you may proceed. Please don’t let us keep you from having fun._ ” Comes Eve’s sarcastic comment and both of them get out of the car smirking smugly.

They take the fire exit and climb up until they reach the top floor, because Q wants to do at least one thing as this type of situation normally requires. Their first contact with the targets will be anything but spy-like. The corridor is quiet except for your domestic everyday noises. Here the clatter of plates being washed and put away, there the evening’s news playing loudly, somewhere further down somebody is arguing--everything is as normal as it can be.

“Remember, Plan B comes after Plan A.” Q says quietly as they approach the door of 317.

“Even if Plan A is successful?” Bond asks, looking straight ahead of him, his body language seemingly relaxed and open.

Q would look twice at him before believing it. He has enough proof of how quickly that illusion can bring death upon one’s head to tread every move carefully.

Tricky old 007. Well, not that old if the trick still works.

“Well, we wouldn’t want to leave them with the impression that they can bugger with us however they like, now would we?” He comments lightly, the shadow of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Bond smirks deliberately as they stop in front of the door, saying, “Glad we’re on the same page there.” before Q knocks three times.

“ _Blatantly knocking at their door?_ ” Eve says incredulously. “ _Really Q?_ ”

He’s prepared to deliver a witty response, when the door opens and a man, not much older than Q, wearing baggy and worn-out clothes with spiky bleached hair, greets them.

Q smiles and says in his most cheerful tone, “Hello, Char”, and takes pleasure in sensing the moment all of Bond’s muscles tense. He’s sure his hand is twitching with the need to reach for his Walther, but it seems he decided to honour Q’s plan first.

Char, for his part, studies both of them, revealing nothing of his possible emotions.

There wasn’t even the slightest hint of surprise when he saw the two strangers on his threshold and that explains why Q said the quickest and most simple solution was to just knock on their door. They were clearly expected.

Finally, a vein twitches on Char’s left side of the face and he calls out, “You owe me ten grand, you son of a bitch!”, not taking his eyes off the two of them.

Bond catches traces of  an American accent, but they are mixed with British accent, so he can’t be sure if the guy is masking his origins, or if it’s the result of spending many years in both countries.

There’s shuffling in the back room, shortly accompanied by a pair of steps (bare feet) and a voice saying, “And might I ask,” A slight pause as he takes in Bond and Q, then, “who is the one that broadcasts his brilliant and unmatched skills in programming and other such triffly-traffly computer thingies?”

Bond puts a face (and a whole body) to the voice and his imagined blurry target. Ginger hair that looks like cotton, dark green eyes (but Bond has a feeling they’re a couple of shades lighter in the natural light) and clothes a tad bit more decent than his flatmate\partner\colleague\subordinate, whatever.

“I _never_ said ‘brilliant’.” Char scowls, and he grimaces before continuing with, “That sounds so antique and clichèd!”

“No, of course you didn’t.” Eryth directs a smile of pure evil at Char, and Bond can swear that he just saw a glint in his eyes. “That’s just me, gauging your hidden romantic side, which seems to border on being ‘antique and clichèd’, as you already said.”

Well, now. If Bond would have had half of Q’s abilities to pick up emotional states of mind, he would have certainly described the half-blinking, kind of twitching thing his eyelids just did as ‘I’m never going to live this down’. Maybe in the end, ‘brilliant’ _is_ his favourite word.

“Will a gun be required to have this type of conversation?” Bond interrupts and both the targets turn to look at him.

Char scoffs this time and Eryth grins wickedly, then, the first one adds, “Oh, please. We’re not animals!”  

There’s an odd sort of pause at his comment, everyone darting quick looks at everyone else. Really, now. Are they trying to play some underhanded game with him? Or was that more the sort of thing called a slip of the tongue?

Whatever the answer is, it is quickly replaced by his adrenalin pulling his muscles into their former state of tenseness as they are silently invited in. Q’s the first to enter, Bond following close behind him, and soon they find themselves in the middle of a spacious living room.

Q flops onto one of the stylish chairs randomly put there, while the agent is content to just stay where he stopped, two steps behind his Quartermaster. This way he can have a complete view of the situation and the people inside, and also be ready to act within half a second if there are surprises on the menu for them.

Belatedly, the thought that they look more like a businessman and his bodyguard at a very important meeting than an agent and his Quartermaster crosses his mind, but is immediately pushed aside.

“A cup of tea would be nice, thank you.” Q says in a cool tone, and is he actually hiding anger beneath that mask?

Bond is inclined to say yes, but maybe this is another trick when dealing with foxes that he has failed to share with the agent just yet. So, he wisely decides to wait and see how the matters evolve.

“No tea, no refreshing alcoholic drinks, no juice fruit within this flat’s walls, dude.” Char says with a disdainful smile. “Only tap water, if you’re that thirsty. Help yourself, though. I just got comfy.”

Sitting on the wooden floor with his back against the window wall has just become the definition of comfy, it seems. At least Eryth’s definition actually has an armchair in it, though he sits on its left arm and not properly _in_  it.

Q throws a few glances at each of them, before saying, “Your Boss wants your head, Eryth. Well, I suppose that’s after a thorough interrogation and possibly some brainwashing included. Do you think it’s wise to still lounge around here as if you’re two college students?”

“That’s preposterous, coming from that old hag.” Char comments with a sneer.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Q says nonchalantly, not breaking eye contact with Eryth. “By the way Ash phrased it, she seemed rather adamant to retrieving your redundant arses before we get a chance to have a proper talk. Well, if subtly throwing in a threat to MI6 is anything to go by--” He trailed off suggestively.

“Ash is a dumbass at the best of his days, so I wouldn’t hold any hope with actually conveying an order successfully. He has a-- _gift_ of giving a totally different meaning to even the simplest sentence! Surely, you’d know better than anyone, Elijah. After all, you’re the one amongst us that has spent the most time with him.”

“ _That,_ ” Q turns his most menacing looks towards Char. “was nature’s bad taste of a joke! Also, this subject has little to no relevance right now.”

“Everything even remotely related to Ashen is a bad joke, so pick your battles.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you, of all people!”

Char shrugs, then adds matter-of-factly, “You hardly ever resisted the temptation to antagonize Ash. It’s not a secret, ya know?”

Something is off here, and it’s not the smell, since neither of them smell of fox, though the place captured it in a faint stink that doesn’t quite bother his keen sense, but doesn’t pass unnoticed either. It has nothing to do with that, though.

It’s _them_ that are not fitting in with Q’s imaginary script.

Eryth is the mind behind all of this, he’s sure of it, so why is Char doing all the talking? Why the hell does Eryth look as though he’s had his brains washed out? The blank expression certainly does not help gauge what they’re playing at right now (if they are).

He throws a quick glance at Bond, hoping that he managed to convey the confusion he feels right now.

“Where are the files?” 007 asks.

Apparently, he understood Q’s unspoken message and is buying him some time to readjust himself and take a new tactic. Hopefully, one that involves some action. His patience is wearing thin, since he’s not the type of man who appreciates long conversations.

“On a tour around the world, agent.” Char replies, throwing him a look full of antipathy.

“Are you certain about that?” He asks lightly, his hand already starting to move up for his Walther.

“Absolutely.”

The smile, that looks more like an ugly grimace, is stomping on Bond’s nerves, if he is to be quite honest. Silence falls on the room, but they don’t break eye contact. The crackling tension can be cut even with an unpolished knife.

There’s no way Q is letting things go off so soon, since they haven’t extracted any decent information, but before he can utter a word, Eryth lunges at Bond, managing to tackle him to the floor.

From there on, things degenerate spectacularly.

Instinctively, Q does an awkward backward flip from his chair just as Char throws himself over him. They tumble and then they’re on their feet again, practiced limbs throwing punches and kicks, aiming intently for various vital places in a body that could lead to serious internal damage.

On the other side of the room, Bond is trying to land some punches of his own, though he is only able to block the stormy throws of Eryth’s. He was disarmed of his gun as soon as he managed to take it out and found himself assaulted by a rapid succession of limbs, each of them having a precise direction.

“Do you really think I believe your ‘around the world’ lie?” Q asks, as he dodges a punch, bending backwards.

“Isn’t it a free world?” Char chides, lightly. “You can believe what you want.”

“Right.” If Q wasn’t so busy avoiding and throwing kicks of his own, he would have rolled his eyes. “But the lie you’re trying to feed me is nonsensical, because you don’t let such important files run loose on the web, even if they have layers upon layers of protection. That’s risky even for you.”

Char snorts and throws a vase at Q, because it’s the nearest thing he can grab and because it’s a nice change of tactics. Q dodges it easily.

“What do you know? Maybe letting them travel the web is the best place to hide ‘em.”

“Not with so many _sharks_ out there. We’re not the only ones with a higher IQ than the rest of the general population and you know it.”

“Point.”

They’re separated by six wide steps, and it seems they won’t go at each other again just yet. Sparingly, Q takes a moment to concentrate on Bond’s fight, and he’s aware that Eryth doesn’t spare the agent anything. He’s like a fighting machine. Q cringes silently, since he so wants to go there and help Bond, but he is starting to dig out some information here, so he can’t afford to lose the quivering thread of communication he has managed to establish with Char.

“So, are you telling me or should I employ my dirty tricks?” He urges, focusing his entire attention on him.

Char bursts out laughing.

“Your dirty tricks?” The bleached guy asks mockingly. “You’re just full of bullshit, dude! That’s what I hate most about you.”

“Well, people are bound to have flaws.” Q offers simply, shrugging.

Char’s eyes darken with something Q can’t decypher. “Not you. Or me. We’re bound to be perfect!”

“Do I sense speciesism there?”

Char ignores his comment and says, “They fucked with us, Elijah! Truly and well fucked us!”

“Us who?”

“Me and Eryth. The fucking CIA caught us seven months ago and _tortured_ us!”

There’s so much anger Q can feel spilling through his words. Anger and frustration. For now, though, he pushes aside the last part of Char’s confession. He normally wouldn’t do that, because he follows some principles of his own. After all, foxes are considered (very deep down) as sort of cousins of the werewolves, and Q’s instinct is starting to fire up at hearing the word ‘torture’ in the same sentence as them.

Grudgingly, he has to concentrate on the first bit, since he knows their conversation is listened to and recorded.

“What does CIA has to do with MI6, then?” He frowns. “This is England if it escaped your attention, you bloody moron!” Because he is a moron. The whole group is full of morons and Q is still experiencing it first-hand!

“CIA, MI6. America, England.” Char throws his arms in the air, accentuating his exasperation concerning the distinction between the two countries. “Fuck if I care! They both speak English. They’re both the _same_ shit!”

He doesn’t know from where all his defensiveness comes from, but he hears himself spit angrily, “No, they’re bloody well _not_ !”

“Yes, they are!” Char snarls, drilling holes in Q’s skull with his gaze alone. “They screw with you until you’re begging for _death_ , if you have useful information!”

Q looks at him for a long moment.

“Okay.” He says almost gingerly. “I’ll give you that, because it’s true. _But_ , it’s not MI6 you have to take your anger on! It’s not MI6 that _tortured_ you!”

For a second, a full, long second, shock crosses Char’s features, as if Q just told him he drank acid all that time and not water. His face starts contorting into all sorts of emotions mixing together.

“Fucking shitty human organizations!” His anger bleeds in the growled words, fists clenched tightly at his side.

Right then and there, Q realises the reason that all of this started. CIA tortured both of them for who knows how much time. He stops himself from imagining the kinds of torture they perform that everybody thinks are not employed anymore. Gruesome, cruel types of torture. He supposes they already found out Char and Eryth are not entirely human, given the fact that they heal faster than one.

“Shit!” Q hears himself breathe as understanding dawns on him. “They brainwashed you into believing it’s MI6 that harmed you.”

“They tried, but we are clever enough to distinguish between the two.” The smugness that he probably wanted to convey comes out as pure disdain and disgust.

Q stares at him for a long time, because even though all the marks on their bodies have healed, and every broken bone, Q’s sure their minds weren’t capable of doing the same.

They had scars that ran deeper than their skin.

He snaps out of his thoughts when he hears Eve saying his name in the earpiece.

“Then--”

“They’re after those files.” Char crosses his arms on his chest. “We couldn’t have sauntered into MI6 and declared that the CIA wanna play dirty behind the Queen’s back. Also, _I_   was against it, since I wanted to take my revenge on someone and you were the perfect target. I still fucking have nightmares, damn motherfuckers!”

“That’s plain childish! You don’t go and --”

“Do I look like I care?” Char shouts angrily.

They glare at each other for a short time.

“We want to disappear,” The fox starts reluctantly, his hatred going down a bit. “But with my resources, I can’t hide both of us for more than a couple of months.”

Q watches his body language closely, because it’s not everyday he sees a fox fidgeting about something they need. They just either take it or demand it in their most arrogant way possible, which pisses Q off the most. It’s not something everybody can pinpoint, though. Just those who have experience with their confusing behaviour and a trained eye.  

Someone like Q.

“You want my help.” He deadpans.

“Did I say that?” Char snaps, but this time the anger is almost tame.

Q arches an eyebrow and Char actually breaks the eye contact. Well now, what should he expect next? A blush?

This time, it’s Q’s turn to raise his voice, anger pooling in his gut like hot lava. “Are you bloody stupid, you damn cavefox? Don’t you _ever_ just _ask_ nicely for help?”

“That’s for the weaklings!”

Q passes his hand over his face, heaving a long and exasperated sigh.

“I would beat the living daylights out of you, if it wouldn’t be the pot calling the kettle black!” He says grudgingly. “For God’s sake! How did I ended up meeting _you_ of all the foxes out there! What did I do so wrong that I have to be punished so harshly? You’re all a bunch of such stupid, annoying cavefoxes, I swear!”

“The fuck do you have to insult us so much, dude!? We’re not the fucking plague!” Char bits out vexed.

“You should put that in your guide to ‘How The Bloody Foxes Work’ !” Q spits out and they do a bit of a staring contest, the tension starting to reach high levels.

At unison, they crouch in a defensive position, both of them growling at each other.

This time it’s Q that lunges at Char, doing a flip in mid-air and sending him flying into the TV. The thing Q hates the most about these damn foxes is that they always manage to bring out his animalistic side. Always. They don’t even have to _try_ , and this sends Q into a fit of rage, because it’s not fair to have a nemesis that can play him so easily.

Char stands up and throws himself at Q again, tackling him. They roll until Char pins Q down, and they growl at each other as if they live only for this moment. Then, Q manages to throw him over his head and immediately twists and throws himself on Char, landing a forceful fist in his face and remaining there, above the fox.

Nobody winced when the sound of several bones breaking filled the silence that followed Q’s action.

They are both wheezing and glaring at each other, when a crash pulls their attention and Q turns his head just in time to see Bond thrown through the window by the force of Eryth’s body.

The shock that fills his every cell punches out his breath, and he stops thinking altogether. Not even Eve’s voice in his ear, saying that she has lost contact with the agent, can penetrate the bubble of frozen time in Q’s mind.

He is aware that these things _happen_ continuously on a mission and his reaction is pointless and counterproductive, but he can’t stop the breathless murmur that escapes his mouth, “I was such a fool!”  

Why is it that some people need such desperate, life-or-death situations to realise the truth?

 _Such a goddamn stupid fool!_ He thinks on an endless loop in time with the replaying of Bond flying over the edge. It’s one thing to watch a camera feed from his Q-Branch and another thing entirely to be present at the moment it happens. _How could I have kept lying to myself?  Am I that much of a fucking idiot?!_  Eve would be delighted to answer all these questions, but--

He is thrown in the opposite wall by Char.

“ _Stop it_!” He actually _snarls_ , bringing himself up furiously. “I’m not playing anymore!” Q walks to the window and sees the disaster in the back alley, but he isn’t able to spot Bond and that’s enough to fuel his next action.

“Oi!” Is the only thing Char manages before Q jumps, shifting mid-air into his werewolf form (his clothes reduced to shreds), because he’s not a damn cat, so he needs to use his big claws and the opposite building to arrive down there without broken bones. “Who the fuck was playing here? Fucking werewolves!” He sighs.

* * *

 

“006, we’ve got a retrieval job to do tonight.” Eve says exiting M’s office, as soon as she connects with his mobile phone.

M heard enough to start calling in MI6’s contacts with the CIA. There was a political fight looming over them all, but right now, Eve’s job was to get back those two nutters.

As it’s a sensitive mission, they don’t want to send in the whole ‘army’, so Moneypenny and 006 are the best choices.

“Interesting choice of date, Eve.” He says in a serious tone as if that’s exactly what Eve is referring to. “Should I bring Vermont or do you prefer Dom Perignon?”

“If Bond still lives up to his records, he’s badly injured.” She continues unperturbed by Alec’s comment.

She rounds a corner and takes the stairs to the lower levels.

“Ah, I wouldn’t expect any less from him.” The agent says. “Especially if our dear Quartermaster is involved.”

She pushes a door open and Alec Trevelyan stops dead in his tracks. They look at each other for a couple of seconds.

“He is.”

* * *

 

Q wasn’t wrong when he predicted that he would get wet.

The rain is pouring down furiously, reverberating against every solid thing that is on its way. He hates getting his fur drenched, and he only resists shaking off the water because he has an important matter to attend to right now.

He pads over to the pile of black rubbish bags that are disposed randomly along the green bins that are placed against the brick-wall. His senses are on high alert for either Bond or the two foxes, and since the rain covers every trail his smell could pick up, he replaces it with his sixth sense. Changing to his human form would leave him completely at the the mercy of the weather and he really doesn’t want to worry about pneumonia later on, so he searches for the agent with the help of his muzzle and his front paws.

It’s not five minutes later that an odd noise further down the line of rubbish bags pulls Q’s absolute attention. He swiftly half-jogs there to find his agent completely soaked, his suit glued uncomfortably to his skin, slumped at an awkward angle against the wall. Though, what catches Q’s attention the most is a dark stain at his right side that spreads over half his stomach.

He’s immediately right there, next to him, whimpering softly as his muzzle touches Bond’s torso, the damp smell of blood proving Q’s fears.

“Q?” The agent croaks faintly, not even managing to open his eyes, his hand reaching blindly for him and letting it fall atop of his head.

The werewolf gingerly places a paw on his chest and nuzzles at Bond’s neck, willing him to stay awake. The older man cracks open both his eyes only to meet electric blue staring him down. He might be weakened by the loss of blood and his vision might be blurred by the rain, even though they are a bit sheltered where he sits near the wall, but he thinks he sees pain and sorrow and guilt in his Quartermaster’s eyes.

“‘m okay.” He says, every word coming out slurred, even though that’s not how they sound in his mind. “Happens all the time, this. Just a bit tired--” His eyes roll at the back of his head and his eyelids fall shut.

What brings him back is the feel of a warm tongue on his jaw and cheek.

Q is licking him, whimpering ever so softly every now and then, and Bond makes a mental note (that he hopes he’ll remember when he’ll be completely healed) to ask his dear Quartermaster what’s the translation of a lick on his cheek in human terms of physical contact.

He watches Q through half-closed eyelids, willing himself to stay awake and continue looking into those mesmerizing electric blue eyes of his. They truly are beautiful and much more expressive than his mouth ever was. Is that an adoring stare or a besotted one? Bond doesn’t manage to make up his mind as a low growl reverberates in Q’s chest, transmitted directly to 007’s through the paw that’s still on him.

He’s not sure (what with the loss of blood and the freezing rain that causes his senses to be dulled), but he thinks the pressure of the paw intensifies for a few moments. There’s a curious feeling of belonging that permeates Bond’s body. He might as well be wrong, but he reads Q’s (probably) unconscious gesture as _possessiveness_.

“Dude, we’re here to say goodbye.” Comes Char’s light tone and Q breaks the eye contact with Bond to turn and glare at the two foxes, now standing a few steps away. “No need to tell us to fuck off. Look, Eryth’s sorry for throwing your precious agent from the tenth floor--” Both of them turn to look at him and are greeted with a blank expression. “--even if he doesn’t look like it. The thing is, we’ve come to offer a peace treaty.”

He tosses a small piece of something near Bond’s slumped body and Q’s head dips down to look at it, his ears perked up. The only thing that keeps the older man from giving in and passing out is the fact that he doesn’t seem to have had enough of Q’s werewolf form.

Sinuous curves, muscles hidden beneath the black fur, the warmth that bleeds out of Q and soaks his body in those places they touch. Even drenched as it is now, Bond can see the wild beauty in him and he never felt so fond as right now.

Back at Q’s flat, he was too shocked by the revelation to actually study Q from head to toe (or tail).

Something else comes flying in their direction, but this time it’s bigger and manages to cover most of Q and Bond. Could that be an overcoat?

“That’s a bonus ripped from our bottomless kindness. Keep that in mind, wolf!” Char says again and Q’s half grateful that the dumb foxes actually can manage to make the insults mild when they’re throwing them at him (from their bottomless kindness, let’s not forget).

Not a big step from dog to wolf, though, but he’ll let it pass this time.

“You don’t expect to keep your pet awake by staring him down, do you now?” He sing-songs as they start moving in the opposite direction and Q can swear Char’s grinning.

Nevermind all the body language reading. He shifts to his human form as quickly as his anatomy permits and puts the rain coat on his shoulders (he’s already wet and the plastic-like material isn’t a wonder that makes contact with his skin).

"Q, you deliberately let them escape." Bond says sluggishly, already missing the electric blue stare.

"007, are you implying that your Quartermaster has just committed an act of treason?” Even though his voice is trembling like a leaf he actually manages to sound light and cheerful as if Bond is not bleeding out. “Rubbish. I’m as clean as the Queen can be."

He reaches for the USB stick near Bond’s body and pockets it, then he lets his hands trail down to the wound and tries to apply pressure somehow in order to stop the bleeding. He only hopes the retrieval team is minutes away.

“Stay with me, James!” Q pleads quietly, his voice a thin thread.

He closes in the distance between their faces, but doesn’t touch Bond’s forehead, even if that seemed to be the intention. Q just stares into his agent’s eyes, letting his face convey everything that he feels and wishing for the wait to end.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the late update, but we've managed to finish correcting this chapter at 12 o'clock yesterday and I was more asleep than awake.
> 
> I thank again my wonderful beta and britpick, R, for all her efforts and her enthusiasm that she put into this story (the very first one I've ever written in English, since it's not my mother tongue, mind). Wonderful and amazing and sweet and... yeah, now I'm too awake :))

_**This was such a fulfilling day** _

* * *

 

 

Even before he opens his eyes, he recognizes the smell of antiseptic and the feel of the sturdy, if clean, MI6 Med department standard-issue bed. There’s no ticking sound anywhere near him, so he supposes he’s not connected to that hateful machine, which leads him to think that the wound hadn’t perforated any important organs.

Good. That’s gleefully good, actually, since that means he won’t be forced to spend much more time confined here.

He hopes he slept through the most of it, so that now that he’s awake, the vampires will let him go in an hour, at the most. He just _fails_ to understand why they need to do the check-ups after he comes back from dreamland. Isn’t it enough that he is alive and can move?

That will always make him grumpy. For now, though, he’s ready to get out of there, ninja-like, until something stops him before he gets a chance to as much as twitch a muscle. He hears rustling at his bedside and immediately after, a frustrated sigh.

Could it be… ?

He cracks one eye open and is greeted by the usual white and faded azure background colours of the Med _and_ (it seems like a once-in-a-lifetime thing) his Quartermaster. Bond is positioned at such an angle that it permits him to see the young man in profile. From what he can take in, his nape is hidden under unruly dark locks of hair, his shoulders are hunched inward, tense, and as slender as ever, but deceptively so--It dawns on Bond that Q’s body is made up almost entirely of deceptions.  

There’s always a surprise waiting to be revealed. James had thought that he could read his Quartermaster like an open book after they’d spent so much time together. His assumption couldn’t have been more wrong.

Another frustrated sigh and the agent’s gaze follows the young man’s left arm all the way down to his bed where it lays intertwined with his own calloused hand.

His eyes stop there.  

He remains rock solid, feeling a bit of tension working its way into his shoulder muscles as he takes his time to study their connected hands. It takes a bit of effort not to twitch any of the tendons in his occupied hand, since he doesn’t want to give Q any signals that he’s actually awake.

It’s nothing special, what his eyes take in, but it feels precious nonetheless.

Q shifts in his chair (uncomfortable bloody things, even here in MI6) and Bond can only make out half of a tablet in his lap. His legs are propped on another chair and he works with his free hand, tapping and dragging windows and programmes incessantly.

The agent moves his head an inch to one side and strains his eyes a bit to read what Q is currently typing in a white box.

_The programme has faults. Too many. Are you deliberately trying to risk the skin of your fellow colleagues by running that programme into our system? I have a sudden itch to reread your file and rethink your position as a programmer._

Bond smiles and squeezes Q’s hand lightly, before saying in a gruff voice, “Are you scaring the living daylights out of your minions virtually, too?”

Q snorts, but it doesn’t escape James’ attention the way his shoulders relax, as if he is glad to hear Bond’s voice.

“It’s not like I make death threats.” He comments in a neutral tone. “I’m inclined to think that I’m too lenient with them, so of course I need to be ruthless -- sometimes.”

_Most of the time, actually_ , a passing thought supplies Bond, but he doesn’t voice it. Instead he says, “Rethinking one’s position in your department is surely classified as a near death threat, if you ask me.”

“And did I?”

“What?”

“Ask you.”

A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, “No.”

Q responds with a small, wicked smile of his own, though he still doesn’t turn around to look properly at his agent. They are probably having too much fun at the expense of others, but it’s okay. There’s nobody there to throw disapproving looks in their direction, and even if there was, neither of them would spare it as much as a passing thought.

Their hands remain linked, because that’s where they belong. Don’t they?

* * *

Eve’s high heels click rather furiously on the cement floor, echoing off the walls. Alec is at her side, easily keeping up with her stride, while she complains about their two recently-retrieved nutters.

“They’re actually at the flirting stage!” Her tone of voice screams “ _Outrageous_!” and her expression does wonders sustaining that thought.

Alec can’t help the smirk that curls up his lips. He’s lucky Eve isn’t currently focusing her attention on him.

“Well, what can you expect?” He says, straining to keep his amusement at bay. “It’s always baby steps with Bond when feelings are involved.”

“They shagged, for Christ’s sake! Doesn’t that count for something?” She looks at him as if she’s urging him to agree with her.

“That was months ago.” Alex replies casually.

Eve’s eyes turn thunderous and Alec breaks the eye contact. Usually, a tremendous amount of danger is always welcomed, yet never enough for him, but having that much of it enclosed in a single human being (which is Eve, nonetheless) seems like a stupid risk to take.

They never stop walking (or stomping in Eve’s case). The Med department is rapidly approaching.

“Why are they so dumb?” She asks, exasperation pulling out a sigh from her.

“Maybe for the same reason you women are so perceptive.”

Eve arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. “Do you really want to explore that territory, Alec?”

“Nope. I’m good right now.” He replies as they push through the doors and walk over to where they left Bond and Q five hours ago.

They actually walk in to a very intimate picture of the two of them, if the linked hands and the silly, if happy, smiles on their faces are anything to go by. Both Eve and Alec stop dead in their tracks just to take in the scene. It seems that neither of them is aware of the other two presences in the room, but what really must be the case is that they don’t even bother to _acknowledge_ them, wrapped up in their sickening, lovely cocoon as they are.

“Unbelievable!” She whispers, stunned. “Are they bashful, smitten kids?”

006 smirks again, but it turns into a wide grin very quickly as they listen to Q’s seemingly explanation for the strange behaviour of their targets (who disappeared mysteriously right before Eve and Alec arrived at the scene).

“Unknowingly, the time they spent being tortured by CIA had a say in how they worked together.” Q says, the words rolling off his tongue with ease as he continues to work on his tablet.

“The dynamic of their relationship has changed since I last encountered them. As they are now, there is no clear line between where Eryth’s dominance begins and Char’s ends or where Eryth’s submission ends and Char’s begins. There’s a subtle, non-sexual dom\sub they have going on, but I think it’s all muddled up and they’re so deep and so dependent on it, that they have stopped caring and just conform to whatever rules appear along the way. That’s what put me off-kilter back then.” He turns his head to Bond, probably expecting some intervention, but the older man just looks at him with patience and interest.

Q makes a minute movement to one side with his head which could mean anything, starting from an odd nod of acquiescence to just a movement, with no hidden meaning.

He returns his gaze to his tablet and continues, his voice soft, “I went in with the idea that Eryth was the one commanding, and Char was just his extended limb that did most of the background work. I was wrong-footed and tried to readjust to the new dynamic they presented, but in the meantime, they switched from defensive to offensive… I think. I still don’t know what made them attack us.”

“Astonishing, Q.” Eve intercedes, walking over to them. She stops at the foot of Bond’s bed and both of them turn their attention to her. “You have the knack for being a social behaviour psychologist!”

Q smiles deviously.

“And ruin the perfect balance the Psych department has finally reached? No, thank you. I don’t think I could face the consequences. I know I don’t look it, but I do care about my sanity a lot, you know?”

“Oh, you’re such a wuss.” She flutters a hand dismissively.

He narrows his eyes, studying her face. “And you have a secret grudge against them, I see. I wonder why?”

“Don’t try to pinpoint the truth by reading my facial expression, Q.” She frowns at him, the subtle threat audible to everyone.

From behind her, Alec sends Q “cut it off” signals and a terrorized look. Well, it’s not everyday he gets to see that expression on an agent so he smirks deceitfully and continues.

“Oh, so 006 has a hand in your grudge, hmm.”

“You know, dear Quartermaster,” Her voice turns honey-smooth, not even turning to glare at 006. “I stop verbally threatening someone at my first attempt.”

“I’m still in the process of healing, if anybody cares.”

“Oh, don’t play the victim here, 007. We all know you would have fled this room in five seconds flat, if there hadn’t been anybody around to keep an eye on you.” Eve says bitterly and Bond smirks smugly.

“I’m with her on this one!” Q comments, not bothering to look up from his tablet.

“So my Quartermaster watched my bed for--what?--two hours?” He asks, quirking one, dubious mixed with mocking, brow at Eve, but it’s Q that answers him.

“Five and a half as of this minute, actually.”

The agent looks at him, Q’s focus still on the piece of technology.

“I feel sympathy for your bum.” Bond declares, wincing slightly. “Actually, I’d much rather show you how much, but --”  

Q’s head darts up immediately, his face breaking into a wide, dangerous grin as he asks, “Should I use my Quartermaster’s privileges and give us some privacy, then?”

“I can’t believe I’m witnessing the flirting first-hand!” Eve tells them, an incredulous expression freezing her features, and it’s now that Alec finally breaks into a fit of laughter.

It seems that he tried to keep his amusement hidden from the others, but when it’s too much, it’s too much, so he let himself go.

The situation is as out of place as it could be (taking reference to nothing in particular). Bond and Q are still testing the terrain, playing something that very much resembles  a game of tennis with all the playful, innocent innuendos they keep throwing at each other. Eve is still astounded by the primary school level the two are showing and Alec is left in the background, assessing the situation and laughing his arse off at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Okay.” Q snaps back the attention of the others, standing up. “I’ll take my leave now.”

“So soon after he woke up?” Eve asks.

Q smirks.

“Were you expecting more behind-the-scene innuendos? If so, I’m terribly sorry, but your ticket has expired, dear Miss Moneypenny.” He takes a few steps towards her, not breaking the eye contact. “I still have a branch to run and I’ve learned that _presence_ is the key to success.” He grins wolfishly.

“You really are a wolf in sheep’s clothes.” Eve states. “I’m finding myself pitying the poor minions more and more.”

“Werewolf.” Q corrects, winking. “Also,” He calls back, while approaching the door, “They signed up for this, so what you’re pitying them for is just an _occupational hazard_ for them.” The emphasis obvious even with his voice barely audible.  

He didn’t even look back at the injured agent once after breaking eye contact with him, which gave Bond something to mull over.

“Well, isn’t he a sweetheart?” Eve comments idly, still watching the door behind which the Quartermaster disappeared.

“If by ‘sweetheart’ you mean sly bastard with devious looks, then yes, you’re spot on.” Bond says wrily, returning his gaze on Eve.

“Don’t be such a drama queen, Bond. You know better than anyone that you can’t trust your first impressions.”

“With him that rule counts for the first thousand impressions, which speaks volumes about our _dear_ Quartermaster. You never know when he’ll go from smiling sweetly to grinning dangerously.”  

“If we’re to take into consideration all the information about werewolves we’ve gathered so far, there must be some stable personality in there. Not fickleness as you’ve described him in a breath.”

“He’s also a werewolf who spent his university days being roommate with a fox. Draw your own conclusions.” He offers, spreading his arms sarcastically.

“Really, Bond.” Eve throws an ‘I’m not buying this’ look at him. “He’s not even remotely stupid enough to let himself be coaxed into accepting somebody else’s point of view, if he doesn’t deem it worthy of his attention.”

“It’s quite the opposite, actually.” Bond says. “He’s clever enough to know what to let in that will turn out to be handy later on. Trust me, Eve, I know him better than you do.”

“Of course you do. He’s not my boyfriend.” She scowls, crossing her arms over her chest.

The room freezes, every breath suspended. There’s a subtle staring match going on between Eve and Bond, and Alec is not going to sit down and wait for them to stop pretending they’ve actually reached that level of brain power where telepathy is just another instinct they have.

“Where are the targets, James? Q wouldn’t tell us, even though he was the one that lead the mission first-hand with clear instructions to bring them back here for interrogation.”

“How should I know? I was half-dead, bleeding myself out, if it escaped your attention when you got there.” Bond gives a half-shrug and a slow blink, and that’s when it clicks for 006. He moves towards his bed.

“You don’t even bother creating a more convincing lie.” Alec deadpans, sitting down on the chair Q occupied some minutes ago. “You know I can see through every single one of them.”

“Not quite.” Bond corrects, smiling playfully.

“Don’t start with the Turkish situation, because I’ll seriously hole up your sorry excuse of an arse and feed you to the sharks -- something I failed to do back then against my better judgement.” Alec bites out, frowning, but there’s no venom there. Just petulance at its finest.

Possibly a tiny, unremarkable _pout_ (if Eve squints).

“Well, if it’s any consolation, your sentimentalism granted me many years of unrestrained pleasure.” 007 drawls with a pleased smirk.

“Life that you’re continuously testing.” Alec frowns again, looking his long-assassination friend straight in the eye. “I wonder how many will you manage before the thread will actually rip.”

“If it’s a lecture about self-preservation I’m sensing, I’ll tell you straight on: I’m not in the mood for it right now.”

“When are you ever?”

“I told you, I don’t know.” Bond changes the subject when Alec’s heavy gaze gets him close (but not quite) to feeling squirmy.  “I passed out before I could find out.”

Eve sighs dramatically. “This time you’re useless, agent.”

“Once in a while it can happen, don’t you think?” He winks at her. “Adds spice to the routine.”

 

* * *

Even if he had managed to relinquish the fox threat, he had still got his hands full with some problems that had arisen while he was busy resolving the clusterfuck his old friends ( _enemies_ ) had irritatingly created without even _trying_. That’s the most important part of being acquainted with a fox he’ll forever have an issue with.

All in all, they were just some small adjustments to some previous unwritten rules.

For example, the Med department’s supply closet. It seemed that even though it was always locked (when there wasn’t any need of its content, that is), Bond had somehow managed to sneak in and pick the locks (your usual, every _fucking_ day locks that even Q, if he put his mind to work, could pick) after his last mission, and had used almost everything that was even remotely useful for staving off the pain.

Unfortunately, other little _tasks_ have kept the Quartermaster in his office and he couldn’t go there and personally tinker with it. Not that he had to do it, when there were so many technicians that were as good at it as Q would have been pleased, but sometimes he just wanted to use his fingers and intellect for something other than missions and programmes. He had to admit that there were these rare, but precious moments, when he itched to do some _actual_ work with his hands.

“That would be all, sir?” The technician Q called for asks after the young man finishes telling him what things he needs him to change or repair around the Q-Branch floor.

“Yes.” He answers absentmindedly, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “No, wait.” He turns to look at him. “I need you to change the locks of the medicine closet in the Med department to digital ones with restricted access.’’

The guy looks at him dumbfounded. “The Med department is not part of my working plan, sir.

“Just do as I say. I’ll let them know beforehand that I’ve sent you there.’’

“Very well, sir.” He says reluctantly.

“Oh, and make sure 007 isn’t anywhere near your working perimeter.” Q instructs, his head already turned towards the screen, before making a shooing movement with his hand. “We wouldn’t want passed out assassins when England needs them the most, if he gets the combination to the closet.’’ Q murmurs softly, but the technician is well out of hearing range, so it’s just his laptop that witnesses the confession.

 

* * *

Late in the afternoon, the petty tasks that have kept him closed in his office resolved, he receives a text message from Eve that informs him of Bond’s discharge. It seems Eve is currently busy with M, otherwise she would have delivered the message personally, and 006 is most probably keeping Bond company somewhere in MI6.

He smiles.

They won’t ever be able to keep the agent in the infirmary for more than it is strictly necessary. That’s a fact that doesn’t need any further proof.

 

* * *

If his ears hadn’t been in human form, he is sure that every soul present in Q-Branch would have noticed the compulsive twitch of one of them.

One of his keen senses keeps sending useless signals towards his brain, disrupting his focus and that’s beyond frustrating for Q, when he needs _all_ of his attention in one place, not scattered here and there.

He is more than busy enough searching the camera feeds for the five faces 003 needs for his mission in Kabul, and the room is perfectly quiet (not as in ‘the absence of noise’, but as in ‘the absence of voices’). He usually interprets it as his personal shield against whatever might ‘harm’ his attention. A nice, unspoken understanding, all his minions had come to, since they wouldn’t want their Quartermaster to _fuck up_ something.  

(Mostly because that would mean they would be trapped inside a room with a furious superior that shows sadistic traits whenever he’s in a bad mood.)

His internal werewolf ear twitches again. A pause in his typing (data running uninterrupted on three of the five screens in front of him). He twists, taking in the room.

Nobody so much as glances in his direction. Q’s eyes narrow. The twitching becomes continuous, now that he had stopped thinking about what he must do. His eyes are fixed on the far wall.  

_There it is!_  The damn reason for his twitching!

A downright stupid analog clock. Who in their right mind would still possess them in this age and time?

He assesses the thing, then starts towards it.

There might be one or two heads that turn in his direction as he walks the distance, but it’s not a full movement, so he might be wrong. He finds an unoccupied chair nearby and positions it in front of the automatic doors (which open as soon as he’s inside the range of their sensors).

He climbs it and stretches to reach the clock. As soon as he gets a hold of the damn thing, he jumps off, landing gracefully with a small huff.

“From now on, digitals only.” He declares, extrapolating the batteries from behind and tossing them together with the clock in the nearest bin he finds. “No exceptions allowed! This is a Quartermaster Irrevocable Order!”

Pleased with his small victory, he puts the chair back and returns to his desk and mission. In the meantime, his programme has found four matches out of five. His mad genius grin returns.

The room is pleasantly quiet.

 

* * *

It’s well past one in the morning when he senses a presence. It almost takes up all of the space in the room, which speaks volumes about what that presence is capable of. He can’t suppress the shiver that runs through his body. He has always had a weakness for strong presences, even though he has never shown it. Or so he likes to think.

For now, though, Q’s main concern is the identity of it. Not hard to figure it out, since the smell of medicine did not wear off even after a handful of lengths, if the subtle presence of chlorine is anything to go by.

His typing doesn’t cease, but his attention is mostly revolved to the person that’s currently staying behind him, probably studying him from head to toe (like he always does).

“There’s something that has been on my mind ever since I woke up.” Bond says, not moving an inch from where he’s standing.

Ah. Employing the ‘straight to the point’ strategy?

Q smiles, but doesn’t say anything. He knows the agent will continue.

“How would you translate,” He starts approaching the young man unhurriedly. “a werewolf’s lick on the cheek into human terms of physical contact?”

Q’s hands freeze above the keyboard. He doesn’t need to turn his head, since Bond is already well into his sight, although not quite in front of him.

Okay. There’s a twinge of mild panic rising up in his belly and his brain is scrambling about to come up with an answer.

“It’s a kiss, I think.” He says reluctantly. “Although it’s a bit more--why do you remember _that_ part?” Q asks, hoping to somehow change the subject.

James smirks.

“I have found it hard not to, even being more dead than alive at the time.”

Q presses his lips together, not liking the turn this conversation is taking. He’d be more than grateful if the agent would let the matter drop, but that’s awfully unlikely. It concerns James bloody Bond, after all. He doesn’t remember the last time he let something drop, just for the sake of it or because he could actually _feel_ sympathetic towards the other person.

“So, a kiss,” James presses. “But a bit more--what?”

_Damn!_

Q glances at him wryly a couple of times. He’s either going to tell him or going tell him. There’s no other option, so he better start explaining. No point in avoiding the subject, really.

“Translated into human gestures, that would be roughly considered a kiss, but you’re dealing with a werewolf kind of thing, so it’s slightly more complicated.” Q tries to explain. “It’s a simple kiss but--more intimate? I think.”

James gives him a long look, blue eyes piercing into Q. It makes him feel uncomfortable, _squirmy_ even. He should be more open with him after all that had happened and the obvious fear of losing him that he so blatantly showed the agent. He could hide it under the Quartermasterly concern over his agents and then shrug it off, but he knows that would turn out to be a faulty plan.

The agent is more than capable of seeing right through that scheme, since his Quartermaster’s concern over the well-being of his agents had never overstepped that of standard sympathy for the next man. Except with 007, that is.

Q had realised the moment he had looked at Bond after he had opened his eyes, that he knew about Q’s feelings. Heck, he did such a poor job at concealing them, he is still wondering how come James didn’t call him out on it.

“So, I’ve got a simple-intimate kiss from my Quartermaster.” Bond concludes, breaching Q’s personal space and keep looking at him intently.

Right. The silent speed of a double-oh. It surpassed even Q’s keen hearing, but he can easily put it under the ‘deep in thought’ excuse.

His arms fall limply at his sides (no point in keeping them ready for typing, since he knows his focus ran out of the window), before he turns to face the agent. From the corner of his eye he sees the empty desks that had had minion shapes occupying them when he had last spared the rest of the room a glance. Which should amount to a couple of hours ago, because minions don’t disappear in ten minutes flat, his logic vehemently tells him.

Well. It is known that when he’s engrossed in something he forgets about everything around him.

“Do you give simple-intimate kisses to every half-dead person you encounter?” Bond asks, a few inches apart from Q.

Strong presence. A stronger wave of sensations washing over Q. _Shit._ He gulps as subtly as he can.

“You’re saying it as if that’s an everyday occurrence.” Q tries to maintain eye contact.

The feeling that he has reached a turning point in life is bloody strong right now, but he is determined to stand his ground and not let himself be swept away by his feelings. This is a personal war he intends to win no matter what, even if that means not giving in to Bond’s persuasions.

“You’re evading the question, Q.” His smirk doesn’t waver a bit. If nothing else, it grows into an almost-grin.

“It has probably escaped your attention, 007, but what you’re doing right now is perilously close to being called harassment, what with all the invasion of personal space.” He continues avoiding the proverbial elephant in the room.

James’ lips curl into a downright wolfish grin and Q’s having trouble remembering who the actual wolf is here.

“I thought you could do better than call in the old harassment excuse, Q.”

Right now, he’s damn sure the stress is intentional, because James must have caught on the fact that pitching his voice to a low rumble while saying his name does _things_ to his poor libido. _Who is the sly bastard now?_ He wants to say, but he doesn’t. Damn. He knows one of them will have to make a move. The atmosphere is dripping with sexual tension and anticipation and repressed desire.

Q isn’t sure which one will do it, though, since as things are right now there’s a fifty-fifty chance Q will be the one.  

“Why, are you jealous I might have an interesting hobby to keep away the boredom?” He gives another try, though he’s unable to keep the amused smirk off his lips.

(Right out of view and earshot, to her dismay, two figures are watching intently the scene.)

“When that hobby entails something more than the standard _human_ physical contact, I can’t see why I shouldn’t be.” Bond makes a half-shrug, his eyes still intent on Q.

There’s something else in there. Something darker and primal, soaking up the agent’s usual calm and steady waves, which Q can only describe as possessiveness.

“I’m not your pet.” The Quartermaster finds himself saying, surprisingly defensive.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You were implying.”

“And you were reading too much into it.”

“Oh, so I shouldn’t read the underlying message every word of my agents has?” Q asks, a bit crossly. “That would be a rookie mistake, _James_.”

He had inadvertently stressed the agent’s name, adding a half growl somewhere in the middle of it. He only realises it when Bond’s expression changes minutely, passing from mildly amused to mildly surprised. As if he didn’t expect Q to employ the same trick on him.

“Still, I’m not your everyday agent.” The older man counters, his grin making its way to its former state.

“No, you’re not.” He replies, letting the unspoken words linger in the air.

Q maintains the eye contact as he internally debates if he should just answer that damn question and be done with it, or stretch the span of beating around the bush for a little more.

“I don’t.” He says eventually, when the silence becomes too much. “I’ve never done it. Never licked anyone’s face in my werewolf form.” He settled for the former option, it seems.

His expression is dead serious and Bond’s grin fades into a fond smirk.

James knows the implication of those words. Knows that it is a step or two away from an actual confession. Bit by bit, though. Bit by bit he’ll reach that, in a way or another.

They stare intently at each other, the tension back in full force.

“I don’t suppose you’d want to stop dancing around each other, do you?” James asks casually, but his eyes speak volumes of what he really wants.

“Hell yeah!” Q breathes with barely concealed desire and both of them surge forward to meet the other’s lips.

Well, maybe Q beat James to it, being with a fraction of second more eager than the other, but let’s not get down to details. Nobody prefers technicalities over love, anyway.

They kiss as if this is the last day of their lives, as if the other’s mouth is the only reserve of air left on Earth, as if they don’t know how to be whole without the other. They kiss passionately, fervently, hands touching whatever falls under them. Desperately, hungrily. Only when the air becomes a serious problem do they separate.

“I’m not good with words, Q.” James tells him breathlessly, their foreheads connected, the agent’s hands cupping Q’s face. “I can’t tell you how important you are to me everyday.”

Q huffs a breathy laugh and locks his gaze with him, “Words are not the only means to show me that you care about me, you know?” His hands are still clenched in James’ suit jacket. “I don’t need them any more than you do to communicate it. I much prefer actions over words, anyway.” He smirks mischievously, then dives in for another hungry kiss, since he finds he likes being breathless.

When they separate (for the same reason, obviously), Bond watches Q’s kiss-swollen lips and says, “How about we take this somewhere more private?”

The Quartermaster laughs and moves away to pack his things as hastily as he can.

Apparently, he didn’t win any personal war with his feelings, but then again, he’s not so sure he even wanted to. He feels that this time around they clicked in place as they should have from the very beginning. Maybe back then both of them had rough edges and few places that could fit.

Right now, though--right now it’s a different story.

 

\---

 

“Shouldn’t we celebrate with champagne or expensive wine the end of our top favourite mascots’ sexual tension?” Alec asks in a low voice, drinking Eve’s delighted expression in.

They couldn’t help (well, mostly Eve couldn’t) but spy on Q and James. It’s not like they aren’t qualified to do that. They’re agents for crying out loud. That’s what they’re supposed _to do_. Besides, who knows, there could have been complications in the process that could have required immediate intervention.

Eve and Alec are spying on them for entirely professional reasons. She would deny any form of personal implications even if it would be the last thing she does.

“Nah.” She replies just as Q starts putting his laptop in its bag. She turns and smiles widely at him. “I think I’ll go home and sleep. This was such a fulfilling day.”

They head for the lift, and Alec can swear there’s a sing-song rhythm to Eve’s steps.

“That’s exactly the reason we should celebrate. That’s what most people would do, anyway.” Alec states casually, though there’s an underlying hope that Eve catches onto, even in her current state.

“I’m not most people.” Eve replies just as they enter the lift.

They settle with their faces towards the doors and Alec can’t help but lean a few inches into her personal space. Without being too obvious, of course.

“Indeed.” He says, resting some of his weight on the wall. “You are an unconventional person through and through.” A short pause. “Fancy a ride back home?”

Eve watches him through the reflexion in the doors, still smiling. She’s not sure she will be able to wipe the stupid smile off her face. She can’t help it, because she’s giddy with affection for those two nutters. There’s not a single person in MI6 that roots for their relationship with as much passion as she does.

“Only if you give me an other-worldly foot massage.” She says in a light tone, her good mood leaking into her words along with a promise.

“I’m nothing if not the best at it.” Alec declares with a pleased and smug grin.

They head towards his car.

****  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two days ago I woke up and a thought occured to me (in the time I spend between waking up and actually crawling out of bed). Well, it didn't remain at just a thought, since I've already put it into practice, but it isn't finished yet.
> 
> This story will have an epilogue. I'll be putting it as the 3rd part of the series. I want to engage in some silly romanticism, since I realised that this is too little, and because I, myself, am a reader, so I know how it must feel having this ending to a story. It's a good ending, I don't deny it, but it's not enough. Well, for me it isn't. I don't know about you. XD
> 
> However, I don't think I'll be able to post it within a week from this chapter, since right now I'm focused on a co-author fic I hope we'll be able to post soon ^^
> 
> So stay tuned for an epilogue!
> 
> P.S. Did I talk to much?-- Yes, I did. Good heavens, and I only had a couple of crackers this morning (with too much salt on them, so that must mean something) XD


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